The Gilded Cage
by Kathy Rose
Summary: Jon and three of his officers are accidentally transported to Earth's past, where they embark on a cross-country journey to return to their true home. TDE 2012 History Challenge, with the assignment of the Gilded Age.
1. Chapter 1

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: The Gilded Age, a term invented by authors Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner, was roughly from 1877 to 1893 in the United States. A time of rapid innovation, it also was an era of serious social problems. A few historical figures are mentioned or play small roles in this story; their involvement is totally a figment of the author's imagination. Some minor liberties have been taken with the timing of certain events to fit the plot of the story. Takes place in the second season after the episode, "The Communicator." Beta'd by Kylie Lee & EntAllat._

There was no logical explanation for what Subcommander T'Pol was seeing. The setting was as it had been, but the details were different. Most startling was the glass in her hand. Originally full of a greenish liquid, the beverage was now pale gold in color and infused with bubbles.

She heard Captain Jonathan Archer suck in his breath. Next to him, Commander Charles Tucker muttered, "What the hell?"

Of everything around her, only the two men had not changed. Both were in dress uniform, as they had been when they had set foot on the planet of Tlibrednav several hours ago. The captain and the engineer appeared confused, matching her own mental perplexity.

A glance down at herself showed that her traditional Vulcan robe was as it should be, the folds of the brown fabric hanging neatly and the script embroidered perfectly in silver thread down the front opening. Formal attire had been deemed appropriate, as they had come here under the guise of a diplomatic first-contact meeting. The conical straw hat, tied under her chin with ribbons that covered her ears, however, was not part of Vulcan fashion. How it had been come to be on her head she did not know.

"Are you two seeing what I'm seeing?" Jon asked. He held up his glass to examine the liquid in it which, like in T'Pol's, was now a sparkling, golden color.

"I think so," Trip answered. "That was one hell of a demonstration, but I'm not sure this is where we were supposed to wind up."

"This resembles the place we were," T'Pol said carefully, "but it is not the same."

"I didn't want to believe it was possible, but..." Jon trailed off as he slowly turned in a circle. "Where's Eigenrac?"

Eigenrac, a minister in the Tlibrednav government, had met them when they had stepped out of the shuttlepod upon landing. He had accompanied them to this reception, introduced them to some of his fellow Tlibrednav, and procured refreshments for them from food and drink set out on tables along one side of the vast room. Now, Eigenrac was nowhere to be seen in the mingling groups of people.

"I swear he was right here beside me," Trip said. He took a sip from the glass in his hand, only to stare at it in surprise. "When did this change into champagne?"

Before either Jon or T'Pol could answer, a white-haired man with a mustache and beard approached them. "Captain Archer," he said with a polite smile, "I hope you are enjoying yourself."

The man was dressed in a dark suit, which wasn't so different from what most of the Tlibrednav had been wearing. His eyes, however, were the color of a clear blue sky; all the Tlibrednav they had met had had eyes of yellow.

T'Pol saw the captain register this fact. Before he could speak, she said, "Captain Archer is fatigued."

Jon shook his head. "I'm not-"

She cut Jon off to address the man who had spoken to them. "Perhaps there is some place we could rest?" She saw a group of people walking toward them. "Privately, for a few minutes?"

"Of course," the man replied. "I should have realized you are tired. Almost a year in the Orient..." He bowed slightly toward T'Pol before looking back at Jon. "… and then losing your ship in that terrible storm just a few days ago. Follow me, please."

He led them out of the room and into a wide hall. T'Pol, her hand on Jon's arm as if she were assisting him, stumbled slightly as they crossed the threshold out of the room. She quickly regained her balance and glanced at the others. No one seemed to have noticed her misstep.

Their footsteps were loud on the marble floor as they followed the man to a set of double doors farther down the long hall.

"You can rest in here," he said. He threw open the doors, indicating that they should enter. "If there's anything you need, just use the bell pull, and a servant will come."

"Thank you," Jon said.

The man closed the doors, leaving them alone to gaze at their surroundings.

The room was a library. Two stories high, bookcases lined the walls. A balcony ran around an upper level, which was accessed by a circular staircase. Richly bound volumes filled the shelves on both levels; T'Pol could smell the leather bindings. On the main floor, upholstered chairs and small tables were arranged on rugs. The crowning piece of furniture was a large desk in front of a set of curved windows at the far end of the room.

Jon pulled his communicator from his pocket as he turned to T'Pol. "Why did you interrupt me like that?"

T'Pol realized she might be hallucinating. The Vulcan Science Directorate had determined that the only other explanation was not possible, but she had been forced to accept it since joining _Enterprise_. In this particular instance, she had not yet seen enough evidence to decide if that was the case, so she said, "It seemed prudent to confer among ourselves to ascertain the situation."

Jon tried to contact _Enterprise _on his communicator, but there was no response. Trip and T'Pol had no better luck. They all stowed their devices after several futile attempts to contact the ship.

"Tlibrednav's new application for their transport system worked, didn't it?" Jon said. "I shouldn't be surprised, but I am. I didn't think they would have the technology for time travel. They haven't even left their own planet yet."

"That does not mean their technology is primitive," T'Pol said. "Not all species have the same curiosity for space exploration as do humans."

Jon held up his hand. "Let's back up here a moment and sort things out. Our purpose in contacting the Tlibrednav was to find out if they knew anything about a rash of spatial disruptions in this sector."

Trip nodded, rocking up on his toes. "Eigenrac told us about their planetary transport system, which sounded an awful lot like our transporter, but they use something called 'time displacement' to make it work."

"And then," Jon said, "Eigenrac told us about a new use for it. They can go back in time. That fits with Starfleet's reports that time slows down or reverses for a few minutes when a ship gets caught in one of the spatial disruptions." He strode across the room to peer out the windows before turning back to face his officers. "This place doesn't look too different from where we were. There's a party going on. A lot of well-dressed people..."

"Overdressed," Trip said as Jon trailed off. "I've never seen so much jewelry in one place."

Jon looked at T'Pol. "How many parties of this size could be going on at one time on one planet?"

The question was evidence of the captain's confusion. "You are focusing on similarities, when perhaps we should concentrate on the differences," T'Pol told him.

Jon took a deep breath. "The people here look human, not Tlibrednav."

"They were humanoid to begin with," Trip said, "but now their eyes aren't yellow, and they don't have earlobes down to their shoulders like the first Tlibrednav we met."

T'Pol made her way across the room as the men talked. The furniture was of antique design by Earth standards, but well crafted of quality materials. The large windows at the end of the room let in bright sunlight, which was welcome as the only sources of artificial lighting were large candelabras and oil lamps, none of which were lit.

"According to our hosts," Trip said, "their time transport system was only supposed to work for their planet's history."

"Something had to have gone wrong when Eigenrac demonstrated it for us," Jon said. "This is our history, not Tlibrednav's." At T'Pol's sharp look, he amended, "Mine and Trip's."

T'Pol stopped in front of a pedestal with an open book near the desk. "The furnishings in this room appear to be from nineteenth- or early twentieth-century Earth." She put her hand on the tome. "And this is printed in English."

Jon joined her. _"The Complete Works of Shakespeare,"_ he said, reading the title on the top of the pages.

Trip's attention had been caught by a globe stand on the other side of the desk. "Look at this!" He touched the sphere, making it spin. "It's Earth!"

From across the span of the desk, T'Pol could see the shapes of Earth's continents on the globe, although they were subdivided into political divisions of several centuries ago.

"There's no way the Tlibrednav could have fixed all this up to fool us in the short time we've been here," Jon said. "It's too accurate a representation of Earth." He gazed around the room. "Well, an older version of Earth." He looked back at the others. "They sent us back in time, but instead of Tlibrednav, we're on Earth."

"Appearances can be deceiving," T'Pol warned the captain, not willing to admit to the possibility of time travel until she had more proof. "There could be another explanation."

Trip snorted. "Maybe you came along with us to Earth because Vulcans don't believe in time travel."

"We've debated the possibility of time travel before," Jon said, setting his champagne glass on a nearby end table so that he could use both hands to rub his forehead. "We're not getting into that argument again right now. I'm going to go on the assumption that we've been transported to Earth's past. So what do we do to get back to where we belong?"

"I don't know," Trip said. He gestured at the oil lamp on the desk. "This is old technology for Earth's time, and I assume Tlibrednav's, too. Should we even tell these people we're from their future?"

"There is too great a risk of changing Earth's history if we do," T'Pol said. "That is, if we are on Earth several centuries ago."

Trip shook his head. "I'm with the captain on this. We're on Earth." He grinned at her. "Nice hat, by the way."

T'Pol snatched at the ribbons under her chin and took the hat from her head, placing it on the desk. Now that she could see more than the underside of its brim, the hat appeared to be of an Asian style that came to a point on top.

Jon gave the bickering pair a stern glance. "We need to find out exactly when and where we are."

They spread out around the room. Trip looked at the titles of books until he came across one that made him smile. Pulling it off the shelf, he said, "_Huckleberry Finn_ by Mark Twain." He opened it. "This is a first edition, signed by the author and published in 1885, so it's got to be after that, right?"

T'Pol picked up a newspaper on the desk. "This appears to be a New York City newspaper dated January 27, 1890." She glanced at the front-page articles. One in particular caught her interest. "A woman named Nellie Bly has successfully completed an around-the-world journey in seventy-two days."

"Jules Verne's _Around the World in Eighty Days_ came out in the second half of the 1800s," Jon said. "It was one of the first widely read science fiction novels."

The double doors opened, interrupting their conversation. A servant, to judge by his tailored livery, took one measured step into the room. Ensign Travis Mayweather, dressed in a standard duty uniform, brushed past the servant and hurried toward them. He was frowning but he prudently waited until the servant had left to ask the captain, "What's going on, sir?"

"We're trying to figure that out," Jon told him. "What happened after we left you with the shuttlepod?"

"I was running scans for spatial distortions like you ordered," Travis said. "I had just recorded one, and the next thing I know, I'm in some sort of barn or stable." At Trip's inquisitive look, he added, "There were horses there."

"The shuttlepod's gone?" Jon asked.

"I didn't see it," Travis said. "I must have looked like I was lost, because a guy working there asked if I was all right. I didn't know what to do, so I asked if he knew where you were." He looked at Jon with wide eyes. "He didn't look like a Tlibrednav. He looked human."

"That's because they are," Trip said.

"The Tlibrednav sent us back in time on Earth," Jon told Travis.

Although they had not established that fact to T'Pol's satisfaction, she realized that the captain and engineer had made up their minds. She held her tongue, heeding the captain's desire not to argue about time travel, much less about what appeared to be transport over a greater distance than was technologically possible.

"How did that happen?" Travis asked.

A faint buzzing sound filled the room. "Captain Archer?"

Jon narrowed his eyes at the familiar voice. "I should have known."

A shimmer appeared near the circular staircase, resolving into the form of a person, although without any real substance. "Believe me, Captain, I had nothing to do with your current situation except for trying to keep it from becoming worse than it is." The figure wavered, losing solidity, accompanied by a surge in the buzzing.

"You seem to be havin' some trouble there, Daniels," Trip said dryly.

The image stabilized. "The Tlibrednav's time displacement system isn't refined. It's interfering with the technology of my time. Hence, the resolution problem. I can only communicate with you like this for a brief period."

"So we're on Earth?" Jon asked.

"Yes," Daniels replied, adding disapprovingly, "You just had to ask the Tlibrednav to demonstrate their time transport system, didn't you?"

"We were trying to find the source of spatial disruptions-," Jon told him.

"I know," Daniels said. "The Tlibrednav are causing them, just as you surmised. But if you would have left well enough alone, they would have figured it out on their own and corrected it."

Trip crossed his arms. "So we're supposed to check with you any time anything concerning time travel comes along?"

The image cleared enough for them to see Daniels' hurt expression. "Mister Tucker, one of the worst offenses of the thirty-first century is altering the natural outcome of any time line. I'm trying to repair this one," he said, gesturing in their direction. "It's quite complicated. And if it isn't corrected, the future of Earth will be quite different than it's supposed to be. So please, I beg you, be careful with your interactions where you're at until I can extract you safely."

T'Pol suppressed a sigh as she admitted to herself that the impossible had happened again. The appearance of Daniels, who at one time had masqueraded as an _Enterprise _crewman in order to foil an alleged Suliban plot in the Temporal Cold War, always heralded a disruption that could have dire consequences. This time would most likely be no different.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

The buzzing sound of the transmission filled the library. Jon hoped no one was outside in the hall to hear it. He had no idea how he would explain the ghostlike apparition of Daniels to a nineteenth-century human. At least he now knew that their theory had been correct: they had indeed somehow time-traveled to Earth's past as a result of the Tlibrednav demonstration.

"Why are we on Earth?" he asked Daniels. "The Tlibrednav system was only supposed to work in time, not space. We're light-years away from where we were."

"Only Tlibrednav had used the system before you tried it," Daniels said, "so I suspect it has to do with the individuals involved. You were sent from current-day Tlibrednav to a comparable era on Earth when there was rapid industrialization and development. This is your species' past."

"If that is the case," T'Pol said, "I should be experiencing Vulcan's past."

Daniels' image fritzed out for a few seconds, then came back, catching him in midsentence. "-humans and only one Vulcan, so apparently there are limitations. All of you were sent to the home world of the majority."

"Why is Ensign Mayweather here?" Jon asked. "He wasn't anywhere near the apparatus."

Daniels threw up his hands. "I don't know!" He looked back over his shoulder at something only he could see. When he turned back to them, he spoke more quickly. "I have to hurry before I lose this connection." He looked at T'Pol. "I just barely managed for you to have suitable headgear so that your most noticeable physical Vulcan characteristic was hidden when you arrived here. Captain Archer, I inserted a cover story for you – one much like the ones used by the temporal agents of my time. You're a merchant sea captain who recently lost his ship in a storm off Long Island while returning from a trip to the Far East. You're visiting here at the invitation of one of this country's business leaders."

"So how do we return to where we're supposed to be?" Jon demanded.

"I can't just whisk you away. I don't quite understand it myself." Daniels' image was becoming increasingly unstable, the buzzing becoming louder. "Get to San Francisco," he shouted over the noise. "I'll have-"

There was a loud pop, and Daniels' image winked out.

The three humans and one Vulcan looked at one another.

"Well," Trip said, breaking the silence, "I was going to say we aren't in Kansas any more, but for all I know, we might be."

Jon began to pace back and forth. "Even if we understood the technology involved, there's no way we can reconstruct the Tlibrednav's device in this time period. The materials probably won't be available." He stopped pacing to look at his officers. "Daniels seemed pretty rattled."

"Sounds like the Tlibrednav's technology has thrown him for a loop," Trip said. "He admitted he doesn't understand it."

"Even so," Jon said, "He did say he was working on a way for us to get back. As much as it pains me to say it, I don't see any other option than to do as he suggested."

"Any place we stay for any length of time would lead to questions we either could not or should not answer," T'Pol noted. "Our mere presence could have repercussions. The effect on the time line could be irreparable."

Jon nodded in agreement. "Before we leave, we need to know exactly where we are. The newspaper is from New York City, but we could be elsewhere. Look around. See if there's anything in here that might give us a clue."

As the others began searching the room, Jon sat down at the desk. Despite the circumstances, he couldn't help but take a moment to admire its wood grain, sliding his fingers across the polished surface, before pushing the newspaper aside. It had already given them the year - 1890. They knew when they were, assuming the newspaper was recent.

The only other items on the desk were T'Pol's discarded hat, an ink bottle, and an oil lamp. Moving on to the drawers, Jon found several sheets of letterhead. He recognized the city in the address; he had lived in the region before moving to the West Coast with his father. "We're in upstate New York at a private home," he said, "but the name at the top of this stationery, Henry Flagler, doesn't ring a bell."

"Henry Flagler? Really?" Travis called down from the balcony. "He was a robber baron."

"A what?" Jon asked.

"A robber baron, or as they liked to call themselves, captains of industry." Travis came down the circular stairway. "I was fascinated by this era when I was a kid. All the new innovations, like airplanes and the first gasoline-powered vehicles, and even electricity, although it looks like they don't have that here yet." He gestured at the rows of books lining the walls. "This fits. All these books are fairly new, and most of them look like they've never been opened. That's typical of the Gilded Age. The rich showed off their wealth with material possessions."

"What do you know about Flagler?" Jon asked.

"If he has a place like this, he was very rich," Travis started. He thought for a moment. "He had something to do with transportation and maybe the energy industry."

"Oil," Trip said. "That fits this time period."

"Okay. We know where we are," Jon said, "so now we just have to figure out how we're going to get to San Francisco, and why."

"Starfleet headquarters is there," Trip said.

"Not yet," T'Pol countered.

"What's there now?" Jon asked.

Everyone looked at Travis, whose brow furrowed as he thought. "The gold rush was over," he said. "That's when San Francisco really starting growing. Um, there was maritime trade, since it has a natural harbor..."

"That would work with Daniels' cover story of me as a sea captain," Jon said. "But that can't be the only reason he said we should go there."

Trip, who had been walking around the library's lower level, stopped in front of a large portrait on the wall. "This is the guy who talked to us." He peered at a nameplate on the frame. "Henry Flagler."

Jon could see that the painting was a younger rendition of the man they had met. The white hair in the picture was thicker, the bags under the eyes a little less prominent, but it was the same man. "That clinches it. We're on his estate." He thought for a moment. "He called me by name, and said that we'd just returned from a journey to the Orient."

"That explains the reaction T'Pol's outfit got," Trip said. "Flagler bowed toward T'Pol when he mentioned the Orient. You've got to admit that her outfit looks kind of Oriental."

T'Pol tilted her head. "Considering that none of these people have seen formal Vulcan attire, it is logical that they assumed it was from Asia. The fabric is similar to silk produced there."

Trip nodded. "The Vulcan symbols on it could look like Mandarin to someone who didn't know any better."

Jon got to his feet to come around the desk to stand before his officers. "Flagler said we lost our ship in a storm. We can say we need to get to San Francisco to arrange for another ship for a return trip to the Orient." He frowned as he wondered if _Enterprise_ was all right, and what the rest of the crew was doing about their disappearance.

"We'll have to cross an entire continent," Trip said. "How are we going to do that? The Wright brothers' first airplane flight wasn't for at least another decade. There wasn't even a network of passable roads until halfway into the next century."

"There were railroads," Travis said. "Henry Flagler probably has connections that could get us passage."

"We can't just ask for him to pay for all four of us to go across country, could we?" Trip asked. "It would be expensive."

Travis shrugged. "The robber barons were ruthless. They didn't do a lot of stuff out of the goodness of their hearts." He paused. "But he might help us if there was something in it for him."

Jon leaned back against the desk. "We don't have anything of value to give him. All we have are the clothes on our backs and our communicators, which I'm not even going to consider showing to these people, not after that one time."

"You mean when Malcolm lost his communicator on that prewarp planet, and you two were almost executed as spies?" Trip asked.

Jon nodded grimly. He had learned his lesson about interfering with less-advanced cultures. Their very presence might have led to an escalation of the planet's already unstable political situation, plus the web of lies he and his tactical officer had been forced to tell in an attempt to save their lives still left him feeling uneasy.

T'Pol shifted on her feet, avoiding their gazes. Jon recognized the mannerism. It usually meant she had thought of something but was reluctant to share it. At his inquisitive look, she picked up the newspaper from the desk.

"Nellie Bly went around the world," she said. "Perhaps we could propose a similar venture and ask for Mister Flagler's backing."

"That's already been done," Trip said. "I doubt anyone would want to back something like that a second time."

Travis snapped his fingers. "What if we want to go across country by train, and do newspaper stories about it? Flagler would probably jump at the chance for the publicity."

"That would require we produce results," T'Pol said. "None of us is affiliated with a newspaper."

"That we know of," Trip said, adding, "Too bad Daniels couldn't give us more details about this cover story we're supposed to have."

"That's one good thing about being dropped back in history," Travis pointed out. "We can make up anything we want to tell these people about our backgrounds since we don't have a history here before the moment we arrived."

"Risky," T'Pol said, "but as long as any of our supposed back history is not specific and cannot be verified, it might succeed."

Jon, drawing from his officers' conversation, was forming his own idea. He strode over to the bell pull, a rope of soft material with a tassel at the end, hanging from an attachment on the wall. He gave it a sharp tug. When the same servant who had shown Travis into the room opened the library doors less than a minute later, Jon said to him, "We would like to talk to Mister Flagler."

* * *

Three days later, Jon and his officers were on a train headed west. In retrospect, it seemed almost too easy.

_"I would expect a portion of the profit when you return with a cargo of silk and other exotic trade goods," Flagler said after Jon had outlined his proposal._

_"Of course," Jon answered. "With the loss of my ship in that storm, I have nothing to show but what we were able to take off with us in the dingy." He felt bad about lying to the man, but he couldn't think of another way to convince him to help them. Under Flagler's piercing gaze, he embellished his story. "I have established contacts in the Orient. The profit should be considerable."_

_"When you return to San Francisco after your voyage," Flagler said with a speculative gleam in his eye, "you can arrange to ship the goods by rail, and thereby avoid the dangerous journey around Cape Horn. Too bad that business about building a canal across Panama keeps running into trouble. It would cut several weeks off such a sea journey."_

When Flagler had agreed to back Jon's proposal, the four officers had anticipated an arduous journey across country by steam train. But they found that they first had to take a horse carriage from the robber baron's estate to New York City to board the train. They had been pleasantly surprised upon arriving at Grand Central Depot, precursor of the soon-to-be-built Grand Central Terminal, to find that Flagler had arranged for a private Pullman car. All the fittings, from the plush armchairs to the carpeting on the floor and the heavy curtains covering the windows, were downright luxurious for the time. Of course, their benefactor had an ulterior motive in that he wanted good publicity to promote the fledgling cross-country travel business in which he had a stake.

Since it was a private car with its own sleeping berths, they wouldn't have to mingle with other passengers. Dining services would be provided. The car itself would be switched from train to train when they needed to change rail lines. They wouldn't even have to get off the train at stops along the way unless they wanted to.

Flagler had gone so far as to provide them with several changes of clothing. Jon was now dressed in a three-piece suit, as was Trip. Travis, whom Flagler had assumed was a servant, had been provided with plain but serviceable work pants and shirts, along with a coat. T'Pol had been outfitted with several traveling dresses, each of which had a small bustle and matching gloves. How she had managed to hide her ears during the fittings, Jon didn't know, but she now had several hats, each with decorations or ties that came down over her ears.

There had been only one time that Jon had been worried that Flagler would sense something was amiss. He frowned, recalling Flagler's questions about the propriety of an unmarried woman traveling with three men, none of whom was her husband or a relative. But Jon had vowed on his honor as a captain to safeguard T'Pol from all harm, whether physical or moral. He had even invented an old colleague, T'Pol's father, now dead, and hinted that he took his care of her seriously, as if she were his own daughter. Flagler had seemed satisfied.

_Flagler looked at T'Pol, the hat having been restored to its place on her head before he had come to talk to them in the library, and eyed her Vulcan robe. "Yes, there could be quite a market for that material. It's nothing like what's produced in the mills here. The ladies were quite impressed with it when they saw you at the reception." He returned his gaze to Jon. "Miss Paul would write stories for newspaper publication about her visit to the Far East, in addition to a travelogue of your journey across country?"_

_T'Pol spoke up. "I cannot guarantee that my stories will be accepted by any newspaper."_

_"She's freelance," Trip put in. "Like Nellie Bly when she started."_

_"Miss Bly has made quite a name for herself." Flagler smiled. "You will, too, Miss Paul, if you are successful."_

Jon hadn't given a thought to their names, particularly since Flagler had already called him by his rank and name, until he had introduced the others. When it had been T'Pol's turn, his mind had gone blank except for the thought that there was no way Flagler would believe she was a member of his crew. If he remembered his history correctly, strides had been made in women's rights in this time, but no women had served on merchant ships.

Trip had jumped in, introducing her as Miss Paul. That was close enough to her real name that it wouldn't be hard to remember, Jon thought. Then Flagler had asked what her pen name would be. She had taken her cue from Trip, saying she would use her first initial with her last name of Paul.

The train was currently passing through farmland in Ohio. Jon had tired of the scenery. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, letting the gentle rocking of the train relax him as he sat in one of the armchairs. He listened to Trip and T'Pol's conversation from across the car where they were seated in armchairs on either side of a small table covered with a white linen cloth.

"The T could stand for Therese," he heard Trip say.

"No," was T'Pol's response.

"How about Tabitha?" Trip suggested.

"No," T'Pol said yet again. "That is the name of a fictitious character who was the daughter of a witch. Many of the people of this era already are enamored of the so-called supernatural, as evinced by their belief in what was referred to as spirituality and their attempts to contact deceased relatives through the use of mediums. I do not wish to contribute, no matter how little, to that erroneous belief."

"Tabitha was a baby," Trip pointed out, "and she was from the next century's era of television."

Trip should know, Jon thought. The engineer was a fan of twentieth-century film and television, just like Travis was turning out to be their expert on the Gilded Age.

Jon let out a long sigh. He felt bad for Travis. Despite the American Civil War having ended two and a half decades earlier, the Gilded Age was still a time of prejudice and inequality. Flagler had assumed, based solely on the color of Travis' skin and his less formal standard jumpsuit, that the young man was Jon's servant. That appeared to be working in their favor, however, for Travis had already made acquaintances with some of the black porters who worked on the train. He now had access to areas and information that they as passengers would not be privy to. Travis had gone to the dining car to obtain their meal, and now was off returning the plates and cutlery to the dining car after they had eaten. Jon trusted that the young man wouldn't let anything slip that might give them away.

"I got it!" Trip said. "Tatiana. That sounds Russian. We can say you're originally from Russia. It would explain why you speak differently than everyone else. And there are certainly Russian sea captains – your father being one, of course."

There was quiet for a few moments, and then T'Pol said, "That is acceptable, if by speaking differently you mean more precisely and clearly than the vast majority of people we will encounter."

Jon smiled at her answer, which might have been a jab at Trip's own accent. Flagler had noticed it, too, asking what part of the South the engineer was from. It had turned out that Flagler had real estate dealings in Florida. The robber baron was planning another venture there in the near future; otherwise, he had informed them, he was tempted to join them on this cross-country trip. And wouldn't that have made this situation more complicated than it already was, Jon thought.

He was almost asleep, lulled by the rhythm of the rails, when Trip spoke once more.

"Tatiana Paul, lady reporter," Trip said. "Has a ring to it, doesn't it?"

Jon fell asleep before he heard her answer.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thank you to those who left reviews!

CHAPTER 3

Chicago was enjoying a rare warm day for February, so the Pullman car quickly became stuffy after it pulled into the station. Trip miserably recalled that it would be another decade or so before the invention of air-conditioning, and not until at least the middle of the next century before it was in common use.

He tugged at the starched collar of his shirt before deciding to remove his frock coat - the era's longer version of a suit jacket - which he tossed over a chair. He thought he looked rather dapper in the Gilded Age apparel, but even his dress uniform would be more comfortable in this heat. He couldn't get used to all the layers. Not counting the coat he had just taken off, he was wearing a button-down shirt, tie, trousers, and a vest, and that wasn't even including the undergarments. He was glad that they had been able to keep their boots. Traveling all the way across the country with feet that hurt from ill-fitting shoes wouldn't have been any fun.

He chuckled as he recalled the interest of Flagler's valet in his and Jon's uniforms. The valet, who had been assisting them as they tried on their new clothing, had been impressed by the precise stitching of the dress blues, surmising that they had been sewn on a Singer machine. They had told him that their clothing was a new style of merchant marine apparel, which had been made in the Orient. Now those Starfleet dress uniforms, along with T'Pol's Vulcan robe and Travis' standard duty uniform, were packed away in suitcases stowed in a cupboard on the Pullman.

"Too bad we can't get off here for a while," Trip said as he pushed back a curtain and opened a window. "I could use some fresh air."

"I don't want to risk leaving the car if we don't have to," Jon said. He came to stand next to Trip to watch the throngs of people hurrying to and fro on the platform outside. "It would be just our luck we'd come back and it had been moved somewhere else."

T'Pol, Trip noted, had put on a hat that matched her dove gray dress before joining them to look out the windows. She definitely wasn't leaving anything to chance; the long ribbons from the hat's brim that tied under her chin more than adequately covered the tips of her ears.

"It is best that we minimize our interaction with the people of this time," T'Pol said.

She had no sooner finished speaking than there was a jolt that almost knocked them off their feet. Trip's hand shot out to grab T'Pol's arm to keep her from falling, while Jon steadied himself by holding onto one of the heavy chairs. A lot of the furniture, Trip belatedly realized, was bolted to the floor, the better to keep it from sliding around or tipping over.

Travis rushed into the car. "Sorry about that, sirs. They just told me they were getting ready to move us to a siding where we'll hook up with a different engine for the next leg of the trip. Here's a brochure."

As Travis handed a pamphlet to Jon, the car began to move backward.

"Come on," Trip said to T'Pol. "It might be safer to sit while this is going on."

They took seats in chairs on either side of the small table midway down the car. Jon and Travis sat in armchairs nearby.

"The Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe," Jon read, raising his voice to be heard over the rumbling of the train engine.

Travis jumped up to close the window, lessening the noise as well as keeping out the smoke and ash that was spewing from the engine's stack several cars ahead of them.

"Santa Fe is in New Mexico," Trip noted. "That should take us to the southwestern part of the country, shouldn't it?"

"Eventually," Jon said as he looked at the brochure. "If this map is correct, we're headed for either St. Louis or Kansas City."

"St. Louis," Travis said as he sat down. At the others' inquiring stares, he added, "One of the porters told me that the more southerly route bypasses a lot of slow freight traffic that would hold us up around Kansas City."

Jon continued, "So, from St. Louis, it's west to Colorado, then south, and then west again. After crossing the Rocky Mountains, we'll wind up in Southern California near Los Angeles. After that, we'll have to go north to San Francisco." He frowned. "The map isn't very accurate. The scale is wrong, for one thing."

"Maps of this time weren't known for their accuracy," Travis said.

Something about the route still seemed off to Trip. "Shouldn't we be able to take a more direct route to San Francisco?"

"You mean the original Transcontinental Railway," Travis said with his customary enthusiasm. "That's what I thought, too, but apparently there's been a lot of snow in the mountains that way. We could be delayed or even stuck."

"So," Jon said, "it might take longer to get to San Francisco than we'd anticipated."

"It is logical," T'Pol said, "if the alternate route eliminates the possibility of longer delays that cannot be predicted." One of her eyebrows lifted. "I understand now why Mister Flagler has done well in business. The alacrity and precision with which he made preparations for this journey, along with consideration of travel hazards, are impressive."

"None of these robber baron guys would have made any money if they weren't smart," Trip said.

"Not to mention they had plenty of money to do things they wanted to do, like send us on this trip," Travis said.

Trip knew that was correct. He had seen the papers Flagler had provided, authorizing their travel as being of the highest priority, which Jon now carried in a pocket in his vest. They had carte blanche as far as where they needed to go by train. Flagler had told them that he had also arranged to send telegrams ahead of them to rail personnel along the line to expedite their journey. The relatively fast method of communication by telegraph also no doubt explained how Flagler knew to book the southern route because of bad weather in the Rocky Mountains.

The car came to a halt with another sharp jolt and a loud bang. Shouts from workers could be heard outside as the Pullman was unhooked from the rest of the train.

Jon passed the brochure to T'Pol. Trip leaned across the table, trying to look at the pamphlet, but all he could make out was a network of lines crisscrossing a map of the continental United States. The majority of railroad lines were concentrated in the eastern half of the country. The farther west they went, the fewer options they would have for rail travel.

T'Pol slid the brochure across the table to Trip before reaching for a small cloth bag.

"Interesting purse," Trip said.

"It is called a reticule," she informed him as she opened it.

Darned if she didn't look like a lady from this time period, he thought, admiring her smart traveling outfit of shirt, floor-length skirt, tailored jacket, matching gloves and hat, and the baglike drawstring reticule from which she was taking a pencil and paper. He watched as she wrote something in tiny, precise script on the paper.

Feeling his gaze, she looked at him and said, "It would be a good idea to have some written notes in case the veracity of our purpose for this trip is questioned."

"Just make sure they're in English and not Vulcan," Trip told her with a grin. He settled back in his chair to look at the pamphlet. "There's quite the schedule printed here, complete with arrival and departure times at all the stops."

"Yeah," Travis said. "The railroad companies got together and set up standardized times across the country. Before they did that, train travel was a mess. Every town kept its own time and-" He stopped speaking to look toward the sleeping berths at the front of the car.

Trip, following Travis' gaze, could see a shimmer next to the folded-up beds.

Jon had noticed the disturbance as well. He got to his feet. "Daniels?" he asked.

"Yes." The buzzing sound accompanying the forming image was almost swallowed by the rumble of the train's engine despite all the windows being closed, but Daniels' voice was, for the most part, understandable. "I'm still having difficulty getting through to you. I can't believe the Tlibrednav can cause this much trouble."

"For you or for us?" Jon asked.

"For me. And you, of course." The image solidified. Daniels gave a sigh of relief. "Finally!" He looked around. "I've always wondered what the inside of one of these was like. We don't have any visual records of it in my time. They were all lost when- Oops! Sorry. I can't tell you about that."

"That's fine," Jon said tersely, "because we don't care about that."

Trip silently commiserated with Jon. Daniels could be damned annoying at times, what with his condescending attitude because he was from the future and knew things that they didn't.

"What we're concerned about," Jon continued, "is how you're going to get us back to our time."

"I haven't quite got that figured out," Daniels admitted. "But you're on your way to San Francisco, so that's good."

Trip got to his feet to stand next to Jon. "Why San Francisco?"

"There's an energy vortex there," Daniels said.

"A vortex," Jon repeated. "You mean like a whirlpool?"

"That's a simplistic description, but accurate," Daniels said. "Suffice it to say that there are a great number of energy vortices on Earth. You haven't learned how to utilize them even in your time, but we in the thirty-first century have."

"Like the Bermuda Triangle?" Trip asked. "We still haven't explained that."

"That's one of them, yes. But I've said all I can say on that topic," Daniels said impatiently. "Just get to San Francisco. I hope to have everything arranged by then."

Trip noted that Daniels' image was more solid and steady than it had been when he'd appeared to them in Flagler's library. "You seem to be gettin' the hang of overcoming the Tlibrednav technological interference."

"Not as much as I'd like," Daniels said.

"What about _Enterprise_?" Jon asked suddenly. "Is the ship all right?"

With a pang, Trip realized that he hadn't thought about the ship, other than how they were going to get back to it. He could imagine the consternation caused by their disappearance. Malcolm, who had been left in charge, was probably fit to be tied. He could also imagine the agony Jon must be going through, worried about what might be happening to the ship and its crew.

"The ship is fine," Daniels said. "I briefed Lieutenant Reed on the situation. He's not going to open fire on Tlibrednav. Well, at least not yet," he added with a smirk that reminded Trip of Malcolm.

"Daniels!" Jon said warningly, taking a step closer to the apparition.

"Don't worry about it," Daniels hurriedly assured him. "If I work this right, none of this will have happened. At the-"

Daniels' image disappeared with a loud pop.

"Maybe I was wrong about him gettin' the hang of that," Trip said.

The car jerked backward. Trip and Jon quickly returned to their seats.

"From what Daniels said, he's working on a way to get us home," Jon said. He thumped his fist on the chair's armrest. "I hate that all we can do is go along for the ride."

Trip knew Jon didn't like the feeling of not having control over what was happening. Jon was a decisive, take-charge kind of guy, which was one of the reasons he was such a good captain. This situation had to be driving him crazy.

The fact that Daniels was trying to help them out of their predicament, instead of asking them to help prevent some Temporal Cold War act of subterfuge as had been the case in the past, didn't mean they had to like it. Jon, to judge by the scowl on his face, obviously didn't.

Trying to cheer him up, Trip said, "You have to admit that it's a pretty nice ride ... for the time."

Jon gave him a half-hearted smile. "Have I told you how much thinking about time travel makes my head hurt?"

"You get a good night's rest," Trip told him, "and everything will look better tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Jon said, then surprised Trip by laughing softly. "At least we're heading in the right direction – in more ways than one."

It took Trip a moment to understand what Jon meant, but he smiled when he realized Jon was right. Tomorrow was in the future, which was where they needed to go, and they were headed for San Francisco, which is where they needed to be. It might be a slow journey compared to warp speeds, but they were moving forward on those two fronts. All they could hope for was that they didn't run into any problems on the way, and that Daniels came through.

A few more days, Trip thought, and they'd be back on _Enterprise_.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: To those who are reading, thank you!

CHAPTER 4

Travis was preparing the last of the sleeping berths, which required swinging it down on hinges from where it was nestled near the ceiling. Two berths were positioned one above the other like bunk beds on either side of the car. During the day, the upper berths could be folded up out of the way, while the lower ones were converted with cushions into couches. There was still room for a narrow aisle to the door at the front of the car when all four beds were made up for sleeping.

The door bothered Travis. On his trips to the dining car to fetch meals, he had noticed that the train car doors didn't have locks. It could be it was a safety feature for a quick exit in case of an emergency, or maybe locks just weren't used on passenger cars, but anyone could walk in unannounced. At least they only had to be concerned about the one door by the berths. The Pullman was the last car in the train, so no one would be coming in the door at the other end while the train was underway.

Given their status as priority passengers, Travis didn't think they would be disturbed, but he hadn't wanted to take that chance. That was why he had volunteered to get the beds ready. The elite of this period didn't do anything that they didn't have to do, especially if they had a servant to do it for them. It would look strange to a person from this time to see him, the hired help, relaxing in one of the armchairs while any of the others were turning down beds.

Travis had already experienced one awkward moment because of the social division between the privileged and everyone else in this era.

_Travis was about to leave the dining car with a large silver tray loaded with food on porcelain plates for his fellow officers when Isaac, the tall, dark-skinned head porter, stopped him. "You come back here after you serve them their meal and you're done for the evening," Isaac said. "I'll find a place for you to spend the night."_

_"I... um..." Travis stuttered. He had assumed he would be in the Pullman with the captain and the others, but apparently porters and servants didn't share overnight accommodations with the passengers. "Captain Archer expects me to stay with him."_

_Isaac looked askance at him. Not only did the head porter have one of those ageless faces which made it hard to guess how old he might be, he didn't give away much with his expression. Travis, feet braced against the motion of the train, gripped the covered serving platter more tightly and wondered if Isaac was going to argue with him._

_To his relief, Isaac didn't press the point. "Some passengers are like that," the porter said at last. "Others don't want us anywhere around unless we're doing something for them. The captain is probably used to you being close by, seeing as how you were on his ship with him." His face took on a serious cast, and his voice deepened. "And you make sure you take good care of that pretty little Miss Paul. She strikes me as a right lady. Some of the places this train will be stopping out West aren't fit for nicer folk." He smiled regretfully. "Too bad you can't bunk with us porters, though. We all were looking forward to hearing some stories about your sea travels. I expect the Orient was a mighty interesting place."_

_"Oh, it was!" Travis said with no qualms about lying. He had been to the Orient, just not in this century, as a guest of Hoshi's family in Japan during a shore leave. "Sorry I can't oblige you about the stories. Now if you'll excuse me, I don't want to keep Captain Archer waiting."_

Isaac seemed like a good man. Travis wouldn't be surprised if he was responsible for the spotless interior of the Pullman. He seemed like the type of person who, knowing VIPs would be on board, would see to something like that himself instead of delegating it to one of his subordinate porters. He had even helped carry their luggage on board in New York City. Travis had observed that Isaac supervised his train-bound domain with a firm but fair hand, keeping the other porters organized and on their toes. He had never been anything but courteous, and his uniform of black suit, white shirt, and billed cap was always neat and clean. Isaac, he thought, was a man who took pride in doing his job well.

But although Travis had taken an instant liking to him, Isaac had also impressed him as being able to tell when something might not be quite right. Maybe it was a good thing he wouldn't be bunking with the porters. He might let something slip, or be tempted to tell them stories of places much farther away than the Orient. He could imagine Isaac's reaction to the story of exotic women, their bodies covered in paint and little else, who ate butterflies. There was no way Isaac would believe that.

He grimaced as he gave the bed covering one last yank to straighten it. That he'd had to assume the role of a servant rankled somewhat, but he understood the need for all four of them to fit in during this era. He had no control over the fact that, based on Gilded Age society, he best fit as a servant. In a way, how he needed to behave in the presence of the people of this time was kind of like being a junior officer on bridge duty. All he had to do was keep quiet unless addressed, be respectful, and do his job, and no one would know he was from more than two and a half centuries in their future.

All the same, it was unsettling to be treated differently by members of his own species simply because of the color of his skin. At least he was human. He could imagine the uproar if anyone found out that Subcommander T'Pol had green blood. Her alienness might have made it hard for her to blend in, but her naturally cool demeanor tended to keep people at a distance. That had worked in her favor already; she had only met Isaac briefly at boarding, but she had left such a favorable impression with the head porter that he had cautioned Travis to take care of her.

Travis straightened from his task and went to join the others in the sitting area of the car. "The beds are ready, sir," he told Jon.

"Thank you, Travis," Jon said. "I think all of us should turn in soon." He looked at T'Pol. "You want first dibs on the washroom?"

T'Pol rose carefully to her feet against the motion of the train. "Yes, I do."

Trip, sitting next to a window where he had been gazing out at the Illinois farm fields as the train had rolled along under a bright moon, looked over at her. "Didn't think to bring your nasal numbing agent with you to Tlibrednav, did you?" he teased.

"No," she replied shortly. She pulled a handkerchief from her reticule. A delicate scent of perfume wafted through the car. "This will have to suffice."

T'Pol had discovered this era's version of a nasal numbing agent, Travis realized. Scented handkerchiefs were a current fashion for ladies. He had seen women on the platform in Chicago holding handkerchiefs to their noses, trying to ward off the pungent smell of a stockyard in the vicinity.

T'Pol carefully made her way to the washroom. Located at the front of the car near the berths, the washroom was a partitioned-off area not much bigger than a closet. Inside was a stand with a wash basin and pitcher of water, along with towels, mirror, and a rudimentary toilet. Waste was emptied through a chute in the bottom of the toilet onto the tracks below. As long as the train was moving, any unpleasant odors usually dissipated quickly. It wasn't terribly sanitary, but Travis was glad that in his role as a servant he wasn't going to have to empty a chamber pot on a regular basis.

He took a seat since he was going to have to wait his turn to use the washroom. He had already learned the hard way that standing while the train was moving wasn't a good idea. Most of the time, he could steady himself easily, but there was the occasional bump in the rails or a curve that could throw a person off balance. He had already garnered a few bruises before he'd gotten the hang of walking while the train was moving.

As T'Pol entered the washroom and shut the door, Jon turned to Travis. "I'm sorry about all this, Ensign. I wish I could tell these people that you're a valuable member of my crew."

"There's no need to apologize, sir," Travis said. "It's just the way things were at this time." He paused, his gaze taking in the luxurious furnishings in the car. "I can't get over us actually being here. This was such an interesting time in history. All the innovations and inventions happened so fast. I knew there was prejudice and inequality, but I didn't think much about it. I guess until you actually experience it yourself, it doesn't make much of an impression. It's easy to forget how hard humans had to work to overcome their shortcomings as a species."

"You're a wise man, Travis Mayweather," Jon said.

"I don't know about that, sir," Travis said, "but I'm certainly getting an education about life during the Gilded Age."

Jon picked up the railroad brochure from the table next to him. "We should be at St. Louis early tomorrow."

"That should be interesting," Trip said. "I guess there's a bridge over the Mississippi River by now. Otherwise, they'll have to put us, with or without this rolling conveyance of decadence, on a barge and float us across."

Travis shifted in his seat. Free fall in space was one thing; falling into one of the biggest rivers on the planet was another. "I'm not sure I like that idea."

The washroom door opened and T'Pol came out. Travis saw her survey the berths before pulling back the blankets on one of the upper bunks.

"Don't you want one of the bottom ones?" Trip called out to her. "They would be easier for you to get in and out of."

"No," she replied. "I would prefer not to have one of you come crashing down on me in the middle of the night if the upper bed's supports give way."

"They're sturdy," Travis told her. "I don't think that would happen."

She shot him a cool gaze that indicated she wasn't willing to take that chance. As she turned back to the beds, Travis heard Trip whisper to Jon, "How's she gonna get up there in that get-up?"

"I was wondering the same thing," Jon whispered back.

Travis was, too. Their wardrobes had been so hastily prepared that he didn't have anything other than his skivvies and undershirt to sleep in. Neither did T'Pol, apparently, or else he thought she would have changed in the washroom. She must be planning to sleep in her clothes, although how she was going to climb into the upper berth wearing that long skirt with a bustle was beyond him. He watched as she hoisted the skirt with one hand and placed her other hand on the top bunk. Then she stepped up onto the frame of the lower bunk. She hesitated, her midsection even with the mattress of the upper berth.

"Do you need some assistance?" Jon asked her.

"No," came her reply, "just a moment to consider the best way to do this."

She let go of her skirt, grabbed something on the far side of the upper bunk that Travis couldn't see, and pulled herself up and onto the mattress, her booted feet the last thing to disappear from his view.

Jon and Trip traded amused glances.

Trying not to laugh, Trip called out, "You sure you don't need any help?"

"No, thank you," T'Pol replied, her voice somewhat muffled.

Travis leaned to the side to see down the aisle between the berths. T'Pol had pulled shut the curtain that gave a bed's occupant a semblance of privacy, although there were indications that she hadn't settled. The curtain was being poked from the inside, probably from a foot or elbow as she twisted around in there.

"Sirs?" Travis asked the other two men. "Do either of you want to use the washroom next?"

Trip shook his head. Jon said, "You go ahead."

Travis started to get to his feet, but stopped. "Which bed should I take?"

"I seriously doubt watching you getting into bed will be as entertaining as T'Pol was," Trip said, "but why don't you take the other upper berth?"

"Sir?" Travis asked Jon.

"If you want it, it's yours," Jon said.

"All right," Travis said. "I'll just be a minute."

"Take your time, Travis," Jon told him.

Travis made his way to the washroom, where he quickly washed up. There was only so much cleaning that could be done with a bowl of water and a towel. He hoped that he wasn't contributing to T'Pol's nasal distress, but there was nothing he could do about it.

He started to strip down to his underwear but stopped. What if he needed to get up in the middle of the night? Besides, despite the relative comfort of the Pullman, it was bound to become cooler as the night progressed. He decided to compromise. He took off only his shirt and boots, leaving him clad in undershirt, pants, and socks.

After exiting the washroom, he put his shirt and boots in a nearby cabinet where he had hung up his coat earlier. He turned to the two men still seated farther back in the Pullman. "Good night, sirs," he told them.

"Night, Travis," Jon said, echoed by Trip.

All was quiet from T'Pol's bunk as Travis climbed into his. There wasn't much room to move around, the bed being narrower than what he was used to and the ceiling fairly close above him. Once he got under the blankets, however, he had to admit that it was rather cozy. He pulled the curtain shut.

A faint glow from the lamps in the main area of the car showed around the edge of the curtain. He could hear the captain and the commander talking quietly. His last thought as he fell asleep was that this reminded him of growing up on his family's cargo ship, sharing a room and bunk beds with his brother, although this mattress wasn't as comfortable.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

Isaac, the head porter, stepped over the coupling to the private Pullman car. On the covered entrance platform, he rapped loudly on the door. He waited, not sure anyone inside had heard him over the sound of the train wheels on the tracks. He was about to knock again when the door opened.

Travis blocked the doorway. "Hi, Isaac," the younger man said, glancing back over his shoulder before opening the door wider. "Come on in."

Isaac stepped inside. He gave Travis an approving nod when he saw that the berths had been returned to their daytime configuration. From the corner of his eye, he could see that the washroom had been tidied. All the towels appeared to be there as well. Good thing, because it would come out of his salary if any of them turned up missing, and the towels in this private car were the new, expensive terrycloth variety in a shade of blue that matched the decor of the washroom. Once he paid the rent for his family's house in the Pullman Company workers' town near Chicago, and paid for their food which they had to buy from the company store, there was hardly anything left for extras, much less making good for whatever items passengers walked off with.

He moved past the berths, Travis following behind him. If the young man ever got tired of being at sea, Isaac would have no trouble recommending him for a porter position. He was both courteous and conscientious – good qualities for a man who worked with passengers who were often tired and pernickety. He also was quick on his feet; Isaac had seen the young man almost take a couple of tumbles, but he was developing his train legs.

Captain Archer, Mister Tucker, and Miss Paul were seated around the largest table, the remains of the morning meal in front of them. Isaac frowned when he saw a fourth place there; Travis had dined with them. He should have expected it, since Travis had only eaten one meal with the porters, but he would have thought the manservant would eat at a separate table from the others, or at the very least, eaten after they had finished. Maybe, Isaac decided, Travis' time at sea with Captain Archer allowed for such familiarity.

"Captain Archer," Isaac said, addressing the tall man who was leaning back in his chair, a cup of coffee in his hand. "We'll be at St. Louis within the hour."

"Thank you," the captain said. "Isaac, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

The captain was looking squarely at him, which Isaac appreciated. So many passengers would avoid holding his gaze, dismissing him as unimportant.

"Would you mind telling whoever prepared breakfast that it was excellent?" Archer said. "We all enjoyed it."

Isaac smiled at that, but his smile faded when he caught sight of Miss Paul's plate. She had hardly eaten a thing. The bacon and eggs were untouched, and only a few bites had been taken from her bread. Before he could ask if something was wrong with her food, the other gentleman at the table, the one with the Southern accent, spoke up.

"The train ride isn't agreein' with her," Mister Tucker told him. He eyed her plate. "Shame to waste that bacon, though."

"Be my guest," she said, pushing her plate toward him.

What Isaac could see of her face under her wide-brimmed hat did look a little green. "I'm sorry to hear you aren't feeling well," he said. "Perhaps a cup of tea with honey and ginger would help."

"Yes, I believe it would," she said, "although I don't want to put you to any trouble."

"No trouble at all, ma'am," Isaac said. "I'll have it ready for Travis to bring to you when he returns the plates to the dining car."

"Thank you," she murmured.

Captain Archer was looking at him expectantly, which reminded Isaac of his reason for visiting the Pullman. "There will be a wait of several hours in St. Louis. There was an accident farther along the line that's tying things up."

"Nothing serious, I hope," Captain Archer said.

The man actually looked concerned. Isaac got the impression that it wasn't necessarily because it would mean an inconvenience for him. His opinion of these passengers went up a notch. "Not too bad, from what the railroad agent at the stop in Edwardsville said," he said. "I wouldn't venture too far when the train's in St. Louis, though, if you decide to step out for a spell. I expect we'll leave there as soon as the line's cleared."

The captain nodded. "Thank you, Isaac. We'll keep that in mind. I appreciate your telling us."

Isaac touched the bill of his hat and left. He knew he had a good job, practically the best-paying job available for men of his color. But as he walked out of the car, for the first time that he could remember, he wondered what it would be like to have a different job. Say, working for someone with decent qualities like Captain Archer.

Travis, he thought, was a very lucky man.

* * *

"I wish I could get a better look at this," Trip said, his nose pressed against the window. "You know, from somewhere other than right on top of it."

The temperature had dropped overnight but hadn't risen with the sun. Trip was fogging up the window glass in his excitement as the train passed over a bridge that spanned an expanse of water nearly two kilometers wide.

Flowing water, T'Pol noted uneasily. She had never seen the Mississippi River in person during her tenure with the Vulcan Consulate on Earth, but then, she had never had reason to. Unfortunately, there was no way to avoid it now. If they were to get to San Francisco, they had to cross this river.

"This has got to be the Eads Bridge," Trip went on enthusiastically. "It was mentioned in my engineering history class. Most of it came down when the last big quake on the New Madrid fault happened. The Mississippi didn't run backward like it did that one time, though."

Trip's comments implied that there had been an earlier instance when the Mississippi had reversed course. The forces that could cause a river of this magnitude to do that had to be immense, T'Pol thought with no little trepidation. She spared a glance for what could be seen of the bridge, but not much but the river and a few paddlewheel steamboats plying the water could be seen. The rails for the train went across a lower deck of the bridge, while above was a deck for vehicular traffic. The strobe effect caused by the structural supports as the train passed them only made her nausea worse.

Jon was looking toward where the city of St. Louis stretched along the river's bank on the far side. "It sure is hazy over there."

"That's because there was a lot of industry," Travis said. "A lot of that is coal dust, but some of it comes from breweries, factories, and slaughterhouses."

T'Pol could bear it no longer. The tea had revived her, but the sensation of moving above flowing water, coupled with the sensory memory of animal protein at breakfast and the mention of slaughterhouses, was almost enough to make her embarrass herself in front of the others. Her stomach was rumbling in a most unruly manner even though there was little in it. "Ensign," she said, turning away from the window. "Could you please refrain from talking about anything to do with slaughtering?"

Travis was immediately contrite. "Sorry, Subcommander," he said.

She sank into the nearest chair, which caused Jon to look at her with concern.

"I will be fine once the train stops moving," she told him.

For once, Trip didn't take the opportunity to tease her about a possible Vulcan weakness. He was too busy marveling at the bridge to give her more than a cursory glance before peering out the window again.

"This bridge is the first time that steel was used as a primary structural material," Trip said. "And they used pneumatic caissons, although I don't think they were counting on decompression sickness."

"You mean the bends like divers get?" Travis asked. "Is the river that deep?"

Trip shook his head. "It wasn't just the water, Travis. They had to go down to the bedrock under the river bed. I wish I could take a closer look."

"Why don't you step outside?" T'Pol asked through gritted teeth.

That got Trip's full attention. "You really must be feelin' sick if you just suggested I walk off a bridge over the biggest river in North America," he said with a scowl.

The engineer's obtuseness was not making her feel any better. She took a deep breath. "I was merely indicating that you might be able to see better from the rear observation platform."

"You're right," he said. He started to move toward the back of the car, but stopped to look down at her. "Sorry you're not feeling well."

She dipped her head in acknowledgment of his concern as she closed her eyes against another surge of nausea. A moment later, a gust of wind blew through the car as the back door was opened.

"I hope Trip and Travis don't fall off out there," Jon said.

The influx of air helped. T'Pol opened her eyes to find Jon, now seated in the chair next to her, looking at her with a worried expression.

"I find myself dealing with a set of circumstances that are conspiring against my well-being," she said bluntly.

Jon raised an eyebrow. "I know you're sensitive to smells."

She sat up straighter. "I have no recourse but to endure the odors of this era, which include greasy animal protein, humanoid waste and body odor, and now environmental pollution. Combined with an unexpected bout of motion sickness and my Vulcan inclination to be wary of large bodies of water, along with restricting apparel - " She tugged at her tight-fitting jacket. "- my body appears to be..."

Jon gave her a sardonic half smile. "Rebelling?"

"Stressed," she said.

"Maybe you ought to go out on the observation platform," Jon suggested. "Get some fresh air."

She gave her head a small shake. "I prefer the relative quiet of the car to the conversation of two bridge enthusiasts."

Jon looked like he was about to reach over and pat her hand, but caught himself. "If there's anything I can do to make you feel better, let me know."

She thought for a moment. "Perhaps, since we will be in St. Louis for an indeterminate period, I can get off the train and walk around. Exercise should assist in moving any toxins more quickly out of my body." She thought a moment more. "And open the windows so the car can be aired out."

"You got it," Jon said, rising from his chair. "But what about the cold? Won't that bother you?"

T'Pol's stomach rumbled again. "That is the least of my worries right now."


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Thank you for the reviews, everyone. Much appreciated!

CHAPTER 6

T'Pol looked better after the train pulled to a stop in a large rail yard in St. Louis. Jon, however, was still worried about her for a couple of reasons, neither of which had to do with her health. "Are you sure you want to go out there?" he asked.

"I will not go far," T'Pol assured him as she pulled on a pair of gloves. "Ensign Mayweather... that is, Travis... said he would accompany me."

Travis looked up from buttoning his coat. "We'll just take a stroll in the immediate vicinity and come back."

T'Pol, a fashionably dressed woman of small stature, would be a tempting target for any unsavory characters hanging around the rail yard. Jon knew she could more than hold her own in a physical fight, but that would totally blow her cover as a lady of the Gilded Age. He hoped the presence of the tall helmsman would keep potential assailants away from her.

There was also the chance that T'Pol would get into a situation where she might not be able to avoid talking at length to a person from this time. There was her story of being a reporter to fall back on if anyone questioned why she was walking around a rail yard, but she might not be able to keep from letting something slip, as she had done with Travis' rank a moment ago. Jon didn't know if she had trouble dissembling because of the supposed Vulcan aversion to lying, or if it was because, as he half suspected, she had never played pretend as a child.

He wasn't happy allowing both her and Travis off the train while he and Trip were also gone. He planned to take the engineer with him to see if there were some items available from local merchants. He checked his frock coat's inside chest pocket. The bifold wallet with Flagler's generous cash advance was safely tucked away there. He had accepted the money, which the robber baron had given him with the expectation of making a profit off a trading excursion to the Orient, under false pretenses. He didn't know what he could do to ease his conscience, other than to make arrangements to send whatever money was left back to Flagler before they returned to their own time.

As they were getting ready to leave the train, he ordered the others to keep their communicators with them. One stern glance as they put the devices in their pockets, or in T'Pol's case, her reticule, was enough to warn the others not to lose them.

As he put his own communicator in one of his pockets, he realized with a start that his uneasiness at not having anyone aboard the train during this stop was akin to feeling that they were abandoning a ship. A silly notion, he knew, but the Pullman was the closest thing he had to a command right now, even though he had no real control over where it was going.

"You about ready?" Trip asked him.

Jon put on his top hat. "I think so," he said. He caught a reflection of himself in a mirror between two of the windows. He had to admit that he looked like a gentleman of the Gilded Age.

As he put on his own top hat, Trip said, "We need pocket watches. Everything about this rail line runs strictly according to schedule. Having a way to keep track of the time would be helpful. They might come in handy later, too."

Jon hadn't thought of that. He nodded in approval. "Anything else?"

"I think we need some sort of weapon," Trip said. "The American West wasn't called wild for nothing, and we're headed right for it. What if someone tries to rob the train? Not that that will probably happen, but..." He looked at Jon ruefully. "I'd really feel a lot better if I had a phase pistol."

Jon grinned. "Exactly what I was thinking. Phase pistols aren't available, but some type of handgun shouldn't be hard to find. Let's go."

As they headed for the door, Jon turned back to T'Pol and Travis. "Remember, don't wander far."

"The same could apply to you," T'Pol said, tying her hat ribbons securely under her chin. "The train could leave at a moment's notice."

As Jon and Trip stepped out the doorway, they saw Isaac striding along the outside of the train.

"Out for a walk, Captain Archer?" the head porter asked politely.

"Yes, we are." Jon grasped the lapels of his frock coat and gave them a yank as he looked across the myriad rails between them and, some distance away, a brick building with a wooden platform a foot or so off the ground. "We're not at the station."

"They call that the Terminal Building here, sir," Isaac gently corrected him. "Not as grand as in Chicago, but I hear they're making plans for a new one in a few years. Anyway, you being priority passengers who have to get to California, we got permission to stay on a clear line where we won't be blocked by other trains."

"Have you heard anything new about the accident that's holding us up?" Jon asked.

"No, sir," Isaac said. "I'm on my way to the rail agent's office to find out that very thing."

Jon glanced over his shoulder at the Pullman, still reluctant to leave it unattended.

Catching his glance, Isaac said, "Don't worry, sir. The train yard has its own policemen. You don't have to worry about any riffraff bothering anything. Away from here, though..." He shook his head. "Well, you need to be careful if you go any farther than the rail yard. There's been a gang of thieves around here for as long as I can remember."

Jon and Trip fell into step with Isaac as they set out across the yard. They had to be careful not to stumble over the rails, which seemed to run in every direction. They were about halfway across when an engine, sans cars, lumbered in their direction.

They had to wait as the engine went by. Speaking loudly to be heard over the noise, Isaac said, "I have to go back to the train right away after I speak with the agent. If you hear three short whistle blasts, followed by one long one, you need to get back as quick as possible."

"Is that a signal just for us?" Trip asked with a delighted smile.

"In a way, sir," Isaac said. "Each engineer has his own whistle pattern. Three short, one long. That's ours."

"That's good to know," Jon told Isaac. "Thank you."

They crossed the remaining distance to the terminal building in silence. As they stepped up onto the platform, Jon saw a sign over a door at the far end of the structure. "There," he said. "That's the rail agent's office. Someone there can probably tell us where we can get what we want."

Isaac touched the brim of his hat. "Here's where I have to leave you, sir."

Jon frowned. "I thought you were going to talk to the rail agent?"

"I am, sir," the porter said, "but I have to go around the back way."

"Because you're a porter?" Jon asked.

"That's part of the reason, sir." Isaac paused. There was sadness in his voice when he spoke again. "But mostly because I'm colored."

Jon stared after Isaac as the porter walked away. He had just witnessed firsthand one of this era's not-so-gilded standards. "Come on," he told Trip brusquely.

The rail agent's office was a scene of ordered chaos. Crates and boxes, all with destination tags, were piled everywhere. A couple of workmen were carrying a heavy trunk out of the room. A pot-bellied stove was in one corner, and off to one side was a counter, behind which was an open door to a smaller room where Jon could see a telegraph apparatus on a desk.

A man in black trousers, white shirt, bow tie, and black visor was behind the counter. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses was pushed down on his nose as he busily scribbled something on a piece of paper. He looked up at Jon and Trip, pushing the glasses back into place on his nose. "Can I help you gentlemen?" he asked, although his tone seemed to indicate that he would rather not.

Jon caught sight of Isaac in the room behind the man. The back way the porter had used must give access to that room. Mindful that Isaac had said he needed to return to the train right away, Jon asked. "Why don't you help him first?"

At Jon's gesture, the agent turned to look behind him, saw Isaac, and turned back to Jon and Trip. His eyes were hard behind his lenses. "The boy can wait. Now, I don't have all day, gentlemen." He tapped his pencil on the counter.

Jon was aware of Trip tensing next to him at the agent's rude behavior. He was having the same reaction, but he had seen Isaac go still at the agent's words. The porter obviously didn't want a confrontation. Jon put a hand on Trip's arm, warning him not to do or say anything. "First, can you tell us if the track for our train has been cleared?"

"Why didn't you say so?" The agent stuck the pencil behind his ear as he walked a few steps to a board on the wall where a number of papers were pinned. "You're on that special, aren't you? The one that has to get on its way lickety-split?"

"That's right," Jon said evenly, still angered at the agent's treatment of Isaac.

The agent pulled a piece of paper off the board. "Last message I got says the line's been cleared. We're just waiting on what's left of the rolling stock to get here. Then you can go."

"Thanks," Jon said. He looked past the agent to Isaac, who tipped his hat toward Jon and left the way he had come.

"Will there be anything else?" the agent asked with undisguised impatience as he pinned the paper back on the board.

"Yes," Jon said. "We need to purchase a few things. Are there any reputable merchants nearby?"

The agent grunted. "What are you looking for?"

"We need some form of protection," Jon said.

The agent looked at them over the top of his glasses. "Guns, knives, hired ruffians?"

Trip snorted. "All we want are a couple of guns." He adopted his best drawl. "I'm feelin' a little underdressed without my piece."

"Piece of what?" the agent asked.

Trip rolled his eyes. "You know, a gun."

"Oh! A Peacemaker. Why didn't you say so?" The rail agent licked his lips. "I might be able to help you out. I can give you a good price. Give me a minute."

After the agent disappeared into the back room, Jon hissed at Trip. "Would you be careful? I don't think 'piece' was used to mean a gun until sometime later."

Trip rubbed his chin. "You might be right. But I know what he means by a Peacemaker. It's exactly what we need." He frowned. "But why would a train agent have guns for sale?"

The agent heard Trip's last comment. As he came out of the back room with a large box in his hands, he said, "Unclaimed baggage. People leave all kinds of things on trains."

"And you sell them?" Jon asked skeptically.

"Don't get in a dither," the agent said. "These have been sitting here for almost a year, cluttering up my work area. If somebody wanted to claim them, they would have done so by now. I can give them to you at a lower price than what you'd pay elsewhere in St. Louis." He reached into the box and pulled out a handgun, which he handed to Jon.

"That's a Colt Peacemaker," Trip said.

"Got another one," the agent said, reaching into the box and pulling out another gun, which he handed to Trip.

"Six-shooter," Trip murmured, opening the cylinder, which was empty, and spinning it. "Do you have any bullets to go with these?"

The agent reached in the box again and pulled out a smaller box. "Forty-four forties," he said. "They're interchangeable with the Winchester rifle. I have one of those, if you're interested."

Jon, who had been examining the first gun, spoke up. "No, these will do. Do you have anything else that's smaller?" At the agent's curious glance, he added, "Something suitable for a lady?"

"Like a derringer?" Trip put in.

The agent went back into the other room.

"This guy's got a regular arsenal in there," Trip said quietly to Jon. "I think he's selling this stuff on the sly, making a little extra money."

Jon thought so, too, but he wasn't going to quibble about it. Time was not on their side at the moment, and this opportunity could only speed up their shopping expedition. "How do you know so much about guns from this era?" he asked sotto voce.

With a look of mock indignation, Trip said, "You think I watch all those John Ford Westerns just to be entertained? I've learned a lot from them."

The agent returned with a small pistol that fit snugly in his hand. "This is loaded. I don't have any other ammunition for it, though."

Trip took the gun and inspected it. "Double shot. Must be a Remington derringer."

"How much do you want for all three?" Jon asked the agent.

The agent scratched his head with the blunt end of his pencil as he thought for a moment. "Eighteen dollars for each of the revolvers, and another ten for the derringer. That'd be forty-six dollars total." He looked at Jon expectantly. "I'll throw in the bullets for the revolvers for free."

Jon didn't know if the price was a good one or not, but he wasn't interested in haggling with the man. He just wanted to get the guns, finish their errands, and get back to the train. "We'll take them."

The agent watched Jon count out paper money from his wallet. "Sure you don't want that rifle?"

Jon gave him a hard smile. "I'm sure."

Trip asked, "You got any pocket watches?"

Jon wasn't surprised when the agent said he did. The man bustled off to the back room again.

"Makes you wonder what else he might have back there," Trip said to Jon.

The agent returned with several watches. After a quick perusal, Jon picked a silver one that had a cover that opened and shut. Trip decided on a similar watch, but which had a chain and fob. They paid the man his suggested price of ten dollars. Again, Jon didn't know if that was a fair price or not.

On their way out the door, Jon called back to the man, "Is there any place around here to buy fresh fruit and vegetables?"

"In February?" The agent gave a short bark of laughter. "There's a market a few blocks over on Chouteau Avenue. They might have something, but I doubt it will be fresh."

As he and Trip left the office, Jon thought the St. Louis air, even with all its pollutants from factories, was a lot easier to breathe than it had been inside with the rail agent.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Love the comments. Thank you!

CHAPTER 7

Trip and Jon, the latter carrying a burlap bag with some of their purchases, were halfway across the rail yard on the way back to the Pullman when they heard three short blasts of a train whistle, followed by another that lasted much longer.

"That's us," Trip said.

Both men walked faster, although the maze of rails made it hard to keep a steady pace. They couldn't see the Pullman because of other cars parked on some of the tracks.

"You know," Jon said, "we're the reason this train is in such a hurry. I don't think they'd leave without us."

Trip wasn't so sure. He had gotten the impression from the schedule he had seen that trains, like time and the tide, waited for no man. "You willing to chance it?" he asked.

Jon gave Trip a wry grin. "No," he said. He stopped to get a better grip on the bag, took a deep breath, and broke into a run.

Trip took off after him. They leaped over sets of tracks, Trip with a hand on his top hat to keep it from falling off, and keeping a lookout for any engines that might be moving around the yard. At one point, they had to sprint several hundred meters to get around slowly moving cars that hadn't been on those tracks when they had left the Pullman.

Trip was beginning to feel like the Sundance Kid to Jon's Butch Cassidy, the exploits of whom, come to think of it, took place in this era. They were running hell bent for leather, the guns tucked in their belts and the burlap bag banging against Jon's leg, when they rounded a caboose and spotted their Pullman. Travis and Isaac were on the car's porchlike front platform, looking anxiously in their direction. Trip saw Isaac say something to Travis before stepping over the coupling to go inside the car in front of theirs.

"I was getting worried, sirs," Travis said as the two men arrived out of breath at the Pullman's platform. "The engineer is chomping at the bit to get going." He stepped back to make room for Jon on the platform. With a shrug, he added, "I don't think they would have left without you, but..."

Jon laughed. "Told you," he said over his shoulder to Trip as he strode into the car.

"I got you something," Trip said to Travis as he climbed the steps. He stopped on the platform to reach into one of his coat pockets. "You ought to have some sort of weapon." He pulled out a sheathed knife.

"I was kind of hoping for a gun," Travis said as he took the knife, "but that probably wouldn't be a good idea."

"That's what the cap'n thought. But that's pretty impressive, you have to admit."

Travis grasped the knife by its bone handle and slid it out of the leather sheath. The long, wide blade gleamed in the anemic sunlight.

"Looks sharp," Travis noted. He slid it back into the sheath. "It's got a loop, so I can hang it on my belt. Thank you, sir."

"I wouldn't go around with it unless you've got your coat on to hide it," Trip advised him. "That might be asking for trouble."

Travis nodded glumly, which was not like the usually ebullient helmsman.

"You really wanted a gun, didn't you?" Trip asked.

"It's not that," Travis said.

Not unkindly, Trip asked, "The Gilded Age losin' some of its luster?" With the treatment of Isaac in the rail agent's office fresh in his mind, he had a sudden suspicion. "Something happen while you were out with T'Pol?"

"Nothing important," Travis said. He seemed to shake himself. When he looked at Trip, a ghost of his usual smile was on his face. "I'll be glad when all this is over."

"Me, too, Travis." Trip clapped the younger man on the shoulder. "Me, too."

They stepped inside the car. Trip saw that Jon had put the bag on the table where T'Pol was seated. She had removed her hat, which allowed him a clear view of her face. As he walked past the folded-up berths toward the sitting area, he could see that she looked much better. The walk must have done her good.

All four of them froze at a loud knock at the front door.

"Your hat!" Jon said in an urgent whisper to T'Pol.

Trip made sure that he was between her and the door. It was a good thing that he did, for the door opened before Travis could get to it. In stepped a heavy-set man dressed in a dark suit like the one Isaac wore, but unlike the porters, he was fair-skinned, with red hair and a ruddy complexion. He walked down the aisle between the berths, brushed past Travis as if he wasn't there, and came to stand in front of the others in the sitting area of the car.

"Sorry to disturb you, gentlemen, ma'am," he said, making eye contact with each of them except Travis. "I wanted to make sure you were all aboard before we get moving."

Trip saw Travis staring at the man with a distrustful expression.

"And you are?" Jon asked.

"I'm the conductor," the man said self-importantly. "I'll check on you from time to time to see if you need anything."

Trip looked at Jon, who glanced back at him. He knew they were both thinking that the last thing they needed was someone checking up on them without any notice in the one place they had any privacy.

Jon's jaw clenched as he stared at the man. "While we appreciate that, it's not necessary," he said levelly. "As of this moment, the only thing we require of you is to never walk in like that again. In fact, it would be a good idea if you don't even come into this car for the rest of the trip."

Trip could hear the slow burn in Jon's voice. Jon's anger might have been caused by the man barging in, or it could be left over from the way the rail agent had treated Isaac, which was pretty much the same way the conductor was acting toward Travis.

The conductor didn't take kindly to Jon's words. His face was turning red, his lips pressed into a narrow line.

Trip took a step toward the conductor. "Captain Archer and I are used to bein' on a ship at sea," he said. "Sometimes we have to deal with shanghaiers or pirates, so we're kinda jumpy around people we don't know. Especially people who just walk right in without permission. That's not good, because we tend to react quickly when we're startled." He pulled back his frock coat, casually exposing the handle of the Colt Peacemaker stuck in his belt as he put his hand on his hip. He stared at the conductor. "It would be a downright shame if we accidentally shot someone."

The color drained from the conductor's face. "Yes, sir," he said. "I wouldn't want that."

"Well?" Jon said to the man. "What are you waiting for?"

Sweat was popping out the conductor's brow. "Sir?"

"Get out," Jon said.

Trip recognized the whiplike quality of Jon's command tone. Not many people ignored it. The conductor was no exception. He turned on his heel and quickly made his way out of the car.

No sooner had the door shut behind the conductor than the car lurched forward. The train was getting underway.

"I hope he falls off the platform," Travis muttered as he and the other two men sat down in the nearest chairs.

"Ensign," T'Pol said calmly. "No real harm was done. At worst, your feelings were bruised. That is not sufficient cause to wish someone ill."

For a moment, Trip thought she was talking about the conductor's visit. But from the look on Travis' face, it was more than that.

Jon apparently thought so, too, for he said, "All right, Travis. What happened when you and T'Pol were out for a walk?"

Travis glanced at T'Pol.

"I can relate the information, if you wish," she told Travis.

Travis sighed heavily. "No. I'll do it."

"Whatever it was involved that conductor," Trip guessed.

Travis nodded. "We were outside, walking along some tracks where there weren't any cars. There was a rough spot, and I put my hand on Subcommander T'Pol's elbow to help her across it. The next thing I know, that man... the conductor... was running toward us, yelling at me to get my hands off her. There's no way he could have thought I was hurting her. From what he was yelling, I think he just didn't like a man with black skin touching a woman whose skin is white."

Unlike Isaac, whose eyes had reflected resignation and worry when confronted with the prejudice of this era, Trip could see indignation in Travis' eyes.

"What happened next?" Jon asked.

"I let go of Subcommander T'Pol's elbow, but that wasn't good enough." Travis shook his head. "The conductor was really mad."

When he hesitated, T'Pol spoke up. "The conductor indulged in name-calling and threats. He was most disagreeable."

"That's one way to put it," Travis said sourly. "Isaac warned me about him before we came in just now. The conductor is a bigoted bully. The porters aren't happy about him being on board, but there's nothing they can do about it. The conductor is in charge."

"If we could do anything about it, we would," Jon told him. "I don't like it any better than you do. But we have to keep in mind that this is the past. It's not our time, or our fight. Anything we do to draw attention to ourselves isn't a good idea. We have to try to fit in until we can go back."

Travis nodded. "I know, sir. It was just-" He broke off to exhale heavily. "It was such a little thing, and he got so mad. Good thing I was so shocked. Otherwise, I might have punched him."

Trip felt for the young man. To have a personal encounter with irrational hatreds of the past, and to be on the receiving end to boot, would shake anyone. He had to admire Travis' restraint. He didn't know if he would have been able to keep from throwing a punch in the same situation. "So how did it end?"

Travis looked at T'Pol, who said, "I informed the conductor that Travis, as Captain Archer's employee, was helping me, which I appreciated much more than the lack of manners the conductor was displaying. I also advised him of the dangers of making assumptions without sufficient information."

"I bet no one's ever talked to him like that before," Trip said with a chuckle.

"There was nothing humorous about the incident." T'Pol tilted her head. "He appeared confused by my advice. He then berated me. His attitude of superiority extends not only to people whose skin is a darker shade than his, but to women in general. He told me I should 'get back to the kitchen where I belong.'"

"He finally shut up," Travis said, "when the subcommander started making notes on the paper she's been carrying around with her. When he asked what she was doing, she told him that she was writing newspaper stories about train travel for one of the railroad's investors."

"He had a lot of nerve to come in here after that," Jon said.

"Isaac said he's incredibly nosy," Travis said. "Or he might have been trying to make a better impression on the subcommander since he found out she's a reporter."

Trip looked over at Jon. "Let's hope he keeps his distance from us."

"I don't think he's going to be a problem after you practically brandished your gun at him," Jon said with a smile. "Still..." He sobered as he looked at Travis. "Be careful when you leave the Pullman. The conductor could make things difficult for you."

Conversation lagged for a moment as they felt the train gaining speed. Trip glanced at the windows. He wasn't sorry they were leaving St. Louis. Too bad that conductor had to be along. He looked back to see T'Pol gazing at the burlap bag sitting in front of her on the table.

"Might I inquire as to what you purchased in addition to firearms?" she asked.

"Some food that might sit better with you," Trip told her.

She arched an eyebrow. When she made no move to open the bag, Trip reached into it and pulled out an apple. He placed it on the table, then reached in again. When he put another apple on the table, the motion of the train caused it to roll. He had to grab it to keep it from falling on the floor.

Before he could take more items out of the bag, T'Pol pushed its sides down to reveal the rest of the contents. The derringer's metal barrel glinted among the items. She carefully picked it up. "This is not edible."

"That's for you," Jon said.

She examined the gun. "A projectile weapon."

"Careful," Trip said, "it's loaded."

She set the gun aside to gaze at the rest of the contents of the bag. "Apples, potatoes, carrots, a cabbage. All of these keep well in storage in cooler weather, hence their availability." She indicated one of several round, purplish-white tubers. "I do not know what this is."

"That's a turnip," Jon told her. "We thought Travis could give this food to Isaac to give to the cook to fix something more to your liking."

"Thank you," she murmured before picking up a sealed glass jar full of a reddish substance.

"Strawberry preserves," Trip said.

She looked more closely at the glass. "'Patent November 30, 1858,'" she read aloud. She turned a skeptical gaze on Trip. "I hope the contents have not been in this container for forty-two years. The preservation methods of this era were quite primitive."

"That's when that style of jar was patented, not when the preserves were put in it," Trip told her.

Something else in the pile of produce caught her eye. She picked up a small, flat box. "This is also not edible."

"That's for us," Trip said, taking the deck of playing cards from her. "It's still a long way to San Francisco. We've got to have something to pass the time."


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

The train rolled through Missouri on a southwesterly route that would avoid Kansas City. The landscape outside the windows changed from the rolling plains of the previous day to the more rugged Ozark Mountains. Although the train stopped in a number of small towns, it was never in any one of them for more than ten minutes, as the engineer was anxious to make up the time lost in St. Louis.

The Pullman's passengers weren't disturbed. The conductor did not make a second appearance, and the private car was distinctive enough that regular passengers didn't approach it.

Travis was a little nervous about leaving the car after his run-in with the conductor, but there wasn't much he could do about it. Jon or Trip couldn't all of a sudden start going to the dining car in his place to bring back their meals because that would draw unwanted attention to their group. And it would be embarrassing for one of them to accompany him. That would make it look like he was afraid, which he wasn't, not really.

But he was careful when he went by himself to collect their lunch. He opened the door of the dining car to cautiously look around the interior. A few passengers were seated at tables eating their meals, but the conductor was nowhere to be seen. Of course, with several other cars on the train, there was no reason the conductor would be in the dining car when Travis went to get meals. If he was lucky, he thought as he stepped in and closed the door, the conductor would want to avoid him as much as he wanted to avoid the conductor.

He gave the burlap bag with the fruit and vegetables to Isaac to give to the cook, with the caveat that, if possible, no animal products should be used in the preparation of Miss Paul's meals. He was relieved that Isaac didn't question him about it, although that in itself was strange. Isaac had made a point early in the trip to tell him that the cook didn't like to fill special requests. But he was aware that Isaac, along with the cook and several of the porters, had seen his confrontation with the conductor in the train yard that morning. They had also seen how T'Pol had stood up for him. The cook might not mind making something just for T'Pol since she had challenged a person they all disliked.

After lunch, Travis spent the afternoon playing cards with Jon and Trip. T'Pol meditated on one of the berth couches with the curtain closed for privacy. Travis hoped her appetite would improve with the evening's meal; she hadn't touched a thing at lunch except her glass of water and an apple, which she had delicately cut into slices on a plate and had eaten with a fork.

By evening, they had arrived in Carthage on the far side of the state. Jon peered out a window at the passenger station. "Looks like a bustling place," he said.

"Kind of rough, though," Trip said, "and not just because it's a couple hundred years older than what we're used to."

"It's one of the towns that prospered when the railroad came through," Travis commented. In the fading light, he could see another building farther down the tracks. "That must be a freight depot. The cars over there look like they're loaded with some kind of ore."

T'Pol, hat in place, joined the men at the windows. "Will we be here long?"

"Not thinking of taking another walk, are you?" Trip asked.

"No," she replied. "I am merely curious about our evening meal. I am interested to see what the cook will prepare with the fresh food you provided." She turned away from the window and headed for her usual seat.

As the men drifted back to their own seats in anticipation of the train leaving the station, Travis told them, "The food should be a lot better once we get to Wichita. Isaac said that's where Harvey takes over providing the dining service."

"Is he like Chef?" Jon asked.

Travis laughed for the first time since the unpleasantness of that morning. "No. It won't be Mister Harvey himself. He's a guy who set up restaurants along the rail lines. Because the food is so good, he was able to make a deal to provide meals on board the trains."

"I thought his name sounded familiar," Trip said, breaking into a wide grin. "Harvey girls!"

T'Pol stared at him as if he had grown an extra head.

"'The Harvey Girls,'" Trip told them, "was a movie about young women who worked at one of the trackside restaurants in the American West." His face fell. "I don't think Harvey girls actually worked on trains, though."

As they settled more comfortably in their chairs, Travis had to admit that they all were getting the hang of travel in this era. They were slightly braced and ready when the train pulled out of the station. It was good to be moving again, but even better, the friendly conversation reminded him of _Enterprise_. It was more than welcome after the day he'd had. As interesting as this time period was, he missed the familiar confines of the ship. He also missed his shipmates, like Hoshi and Malcolm and Phlox, none of whom cared about the color of his skin. When they got back, he definitely wasn't going to miss the bad things about the Gilded Age, especially racial prejudice. And unsanitary plumbing, he added as he glanced toward the washroom.

A few minutes later, Travis excused himself to go to the dining car. The conductor was not there, which made Travis feel more confident as he walked over to the cooking area where the dishes for the Pullman's passengers were lined up on trays. The cook had prepared such a feast that Isaac was going to have to help carry it all to the Pullman. One item in particular caught Travis' eye.

"What's that?" he asked, nodding toward a covered porcelain bowl.

"That's something for Miss Paul," Isaac said with a big smile. "For such a little lady, she sure has a big heart. Me and the cook both hope she likes it. Wouldn't hurt her to eat a little more than she has been."

Travis and Isaac were burdened with several trays as they entered the Pullman. Trip jumped up to help them set everything on the table, even though Travis tried to warn him off with a shake of his head; a gentleman of this time period wouldn't go out of his way to help servants. Luckily, Isaac didn't seem troubled by the uncharacteristic behavior. If anything, Travis thought, he appeared appreciative.

After the table was set, Isaac, with a warm sparkle in his eyes, bid them good evening and left them to enjoy their meals.

"Let's see what we've got tonight," Jon said, putting a napkin across his lap. He removed the lid covering his plate to reveal a thick steak sizzling in its own juices.

T'Pol's nose wrinkled. She seemed ready to reach for her reticule where the perfumed handkerchief resided when not in use. But she took a few shallow breaths and seemed to relax.

The plates in front of Trip and Travis had the same main course as Jon's. That left T'Pol to uncover the bowl that Isaac had placed in front of her. A mild yet distinct odor arose as she lifted the lid.

"That looks like potato soup," Trip said.

T'Pol set aside the lid and stared at the concoction. "I believe there are also cabbage and carrots in it."

Worried that she would hurt the cook's feeling if she rejected it, Travis asked, "Aren't you even going to try it?"

"Yes, I am." She picked up her spoon. "I was savoring the aroma."

That earned grins from the three men at the table.

Trip, already cutting into his steak, asked her, "What else do you have there?"

There was a plate next to the bowl. T'Pol removed its cover and tilted her head. Travis could swear she had a faint smile on her face.

"The cook appears to have attempted a Waldorf salad, but without the celery," she said.

Travis could see pieces of apple, along with walnuts, in some type of dressing. "Celery's probably out of season," he said. "Be careful calling it by that name, though. It was first made at the Waldorf Hotel in New York, but I'm not sure of the exact date other than some time before the turn of the next century."

"For all we know, the cook on this train winds up with a job at the Waldorf and starts serving it there," Trip said.

Jon smiled and shrugged. "Could be." To Travis, he said, "So, besides all the inventions, you know about the food history of the Gilded Age."

Travis shook his head. "Not really. My father liked to cook, and he used to tell me how some recipes came to be. Did you know that lots of times chefs named dishes after famous personalities. For example, Peach Melba was named for an opera singer."

"Peaches..." Trip sighed. "What I wouldn't give for a Georgia peach right now." He looked at T'Pol, who had been concentrating on eating her soup. "You're definitely sharing the strawberry preserves at breakfast."

She conceded the point with a dip of her head.

Jon pointed at another, larger bowl. "There's one more dish, T'Pol."

T'Pol looked at the covered serving bowl that Isaac had put in the middle of the table. "From the size, I believe that is meant to be a communal dish."

Trip reached out to pull the lid off. He stared in surprise at the contents. "Looks like mashed potatoes, but it isn't."

"That has to be the turnips," Jon said. "I had them once. I didn't like them."

"Then T'Pol's probably going to love them," Trip said. "And you probably didn't have them prepared the right way." He took a serving spoon, scooped up a large dollop from the bowl, and placed it on his plate. He tried a taste. He immediately rolled his eyes.

"That bad, huh?" Jon said.

"No," Trip said. "That good! Just like my momma used to make. She always put a pinch of sugar in, along with a generous amount of butter." He picked up the serving spoon again, but this time he deposited mashed turnips on the plate with T'Pol's apple salad. "You'll like this. Trust me," he told her.

She gave him a dubious look. With her fork, she carefully pushed the turnips away from the salad. The tiniest bit of mashed turnips clung to her fork. Under the watchful eyes of the others, she slowly brought it to her lips.

"Well?" Jon asked as she tasted it. "I'm curious. Do you like it?"

Travis was holding his breath. He was sure that Isaac and the cook would want to know how Miss Paul's special dishes had been received. Sure, the soup had been a big hit, and if her almost-smile had been any indication, the apple salad had definitely been approved. But he would hate to tell them that the turnips had been a flop.

"Bland, but edible," she said at last. As she dipped the fork into her serving of mashed turnips, she became aware of the others' stares. She paused. "I find it an acceptable form of nourishment."

As the other two men laughed, Travis thought it might be a good idea to phrase what he told Isaac about her reaction somewhat more diplomatically. After all the trouble they had gone to do this for her, he didn't think "acceptable" was a deserving description.

T'Pol took a bite of the apple salad. After swallowing, she turned to Travis. "Please tell the cook that I appreciate his efforts on my behalf."

"Can I say you enjoyed your meal?" he asked.

T'Pol thought for a moment, then slowly nodded. "Yes. I believe that would be accurate in human terms."

Travis let out a gust of air and began to eat his own meal. He had just taken his first bite when T'Pol said, "I also appreciate the effort this has been for you, Ensign."

She held his gaze, and Travis knew she meant more than fetching their meals.

A/N: This chapter is sort of the calm before the storm. Hang on!


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

The Pullman's passengers were jolted from their sleep by the shrieking of wheels on rails and the sudden deceleration of the train. T'Pol, wincing at the agonizing sound of tortured metal, could feel herself sliding toward the end of her berth. She flung out a hand to grasp the bed frame, halting her slide.

The occupant of the berth below hers was not so fortunate. Over the cacophony, she distinctly heard the thud of a body against an unyielding surface.

"Ow!" Trip shouted over the noise. "What the hell is going on?"

T'Pol did not know. She had not felt or heard anything indicative of a collision, and if they had hit something, it hadn't stopped the train. The only thing of which she was certain was that, since the Pullman was the last conveyance of the train, it was not being pushed from behind by the momentum of another car.

She peered out from her upper berth to see the curtain of the lower berth on the other side of the aisle yanked aside.

"Sounds like the wheels are locked," Jon shouted over the din, struggling to swing his legs out of bed. "If we were on _Enterprise_, I'd say that the warp engine had been thrown into emergency shutdown."

The noise died away as the car came to a shuddering halt.

"Is everyone all right?" Jon asked.

"I appear to be unharmed," T'Pol said.

"Just a little bruised," came Trip's voice, muffled, from the berth below her.

Travis poked his head from the other upper berth. "I'm okay. What happened?"

Jon was pulling on his boots. "I intend to find out. T'Pol, you and Travis stay here. Trip, get dressed and let's see what we can find out."

The two men needed only a few moments to get ready, as their custom on the train was to wear some of their clothes to bed. Each of them stuck a gun in his belt before heading for the door.

After they left, T'Pol was struck by the relative quiet. She could hear none of the sounds she had come to associate with train travel, other than the subdued rumbling of the engine and the hissing of steam. But there was something else at the edge of her range of hearing that urged her to action. She climbed out of bed, located her boots, and, sitting on the edge of the berth below hers, began to put them on.

Travis jumped out of his bed to land lightly on his feet. As he padded in his socks to the cabinet where he had put his boots before retiring, he said, "You might want to keep your little gun handy. This might be a train robbery."

"If that was the case, I believe this car would have already been boarded by the bandits. Only wealthy passengers traveled in this style, and we would be an obvious target." T'Pol tilted her head, listening. "It is not a weapon that we will need."

"Why do you say that?" Travis asked. He sat on Jon's bunk to pull on his boots.

T'Pol reached for the hat she had put on a nearby shelf before she had gone to bed. As she secured it in place, covering her ears with its tie ribbons, she said, "There are sounds of distress from the other cars."

She went to the washroom where she gathered every towel she could find. The ceramic pitcher of water had broken and spilled its contents. No matter, she thought. There should be water available elsewhere on the train. She dropped the towels on her bed before going to the main area of the car, where she stripped the white linen covering from the table at which they ate their meals.

Travis looked at her curiously. "What are you doing?"

"We should assist those who need it," she said as she quickly folded the tablecloth.

"But the captain told us to stay here," Travis said.

"There are people who have been injured. I cannot stay here when I may be able to help them. You may remain if you wish..." She glanced at him, taking in his attire. "...but if you come with me, put on your shirt, and do not forget your coat. The temperature has dropped."

* * *

The first thing Jon noticed when he stepped out of the car was that he could see his breath. He pulled the collar of his frock coat closer as he walked down the stairs of the car's platform to the ground. A few lights could be seen in the cars closer to the front of the train, but the dining car directly in front of them was dark.

He reached for his watch. Under a cloudless sky, there was ample moonlight to make out the time. "It should be daylight in a couple of hours," he said to Trip. He put the watch back in his pocket. "Come on."

They set out at a quick pace along the train. Just past the dining car was a passenger car where a single light was shining inside. They stopped when they heard a loud moan.

"Somebody wasn't as lucky as we were," Trip said. "Shouldn't we see if they need help?"

Jon's first impulse was to find the person who was moaning, but he could see a flickering light moving near the train's engine. New cries coming from the passenger car shook his resolve to go on, but before he could make a decision, the sound of footsteps came from behind him.

"Captain," T'Pol said in a low voice as she came up to him. "I believe there are people who are injured."

Jon stared at her through narrowed eyes. He had ordered her and Travis to stay in the Pullman car, but she was right. He also realized that, once again, he had reacted as if the Pullman was his ship. He had the money from Flagler in his vest pocket, and if they all had their communicators with them, there was nothing of value in their car that needed to be guarded. Besides, he chided himself, it wasn't like someone could take off with the entire car and leave them stranded.

T'Pol was carrying towels and other linens. When Travis walked up carrying what appeared to be wooden slats, probably taken from the beds, Jon nodded in approval. There wasn't much at hand that could be used as medical supplies, but what they had gathered could be used to bandage wounds and set broken limbs. Wondering if T'Pol had stripped the sheets from their beds, he gestured toward the closest passenger car. "Start in there."

She moved toward the car's platform. As Travis followed in her wake, Jon stopped him. "Stay with T'Pol."

"Yes, sir," Travis answered before hurrying after her.

Jon and Trip set out toward the flickering light. They passed two more passenger cars, from which they could hear excited, frightened voices, but they continued on their way. They walked by the mail car and were even with the tender holding water and fuel for the steam engine before the source of the light alongside the tracks became apparent. A man in coveralls, coat, and a billed cap was holding a large lantern that swayed as he walked. Jon pegged him as the train's engineer.

With him were two other men. One was dressed like the engineer, but his face and hands were smudged with dark dust. He had to be the fireman who shoveled coal into the train's engine. The third man, standing with his hands in the pockets of his black uniform, was the disagreeable conductor.

"What seems to be the problem?" Jon asked.

All three men turned to look at him. Although Jon would have bet the engineer was in charge, it was the conductor who spoke.

"Nothing to worry yourselves about," he said in an officious tone. "Just go back to your car. Everything's all right."

"We just stopped faster than Grant took Richmond," Trip said. "I don't think everything's all right."

The conductor avoided Trip's gaze. He looked off into the distance before taking a watch from his pocket and checking the time.

The man with the lantern cast an exasperated glance at the conductor before telling Jon and Trip, "The line's blocked. We stopped just short of it."

Jon stepped to the side to see around the men. The tip of the engine's cow catcher was almost touching a head-high pile of logs and tree limbs on the tracks. The obstruction couldn't have been caused naturally.

He looked at Trip. By the slightly unfocused look in his eyes, Jon could tell that his own engineer was calculating speeds and distances. He was probably coming to the same conclusion that Jon had already reached: There was no way, even with the headlight on the front of the engine illuminating the tracks, that the obstruction could have been seen in time to keep from plowing into it at the speed they had been going.

"How did you know the tracks were blocked?" Jon asked the engineer.

The man looked at the conductor. "A little bird told me."

The conductor put up a hand. "I told you. Everything will be all right. They'll show up, take what they want from the mail car, and go on their way. And then we can go on ours, once we clear the tracks." He swallowed nervously, his condescending veneer cracking. "They should have been here when we stopped."

"We're being robbed?" Jon took a step closer to the conductor. "And you knew about it?"

"Of course he did," the engineer said. "He's the one who told me to stop the train!"

For a moment, Jon thought the engineer was going to swing the lantern at the increasingly nervous conductor.

"Look," the conductor said, taking a step back, "if I hadn't told you, we would have run right into that mess. The engine and some of the cars might have come off the rails, like it did on the eastbound yesterday. Isn't this better?"

"How did you know?" Jon asked.

"He's in on it with the robbers," the engineer said in disgust. "The eastbound ran into the exact same type of blockage, but they couldn't stop in time. Three cars were derailed. The mail car and the passengers were robbed. And guess who the conductor on that train was?" He spit at the feet of the conductor.

The crunch of footsteps made Jon and Trip pull out their guns as they spun around, but the man who appeared out of the darkness wasn't a threat. He flung his arms in the air at the sight of two gun barrels pointed at him.

"Don't shoot!" he cried.

Despite the cold, the newcomer was clad only in dark trousers, shoes, and a white shirt that seemed too big for his slight frame. On his head was a visor that Jon associated with clerks of the era.

Jon lowered his gun. "You come out of the mail car?" he asked.

The man nodded nervously. He switched his gaze to Trip, who was still pointing his gun at him.

"Are you in on this, too?" Trip asked suspiciously.

Before the man could answer, his eyes widened in alarm at something behind them.

Jon spun around, bringing up his hand holding the gun. Beside him, Trip tried to do the same, but he was caught on the side of his face by a blow from a gun wielded like a club by the conductor. As Trip went down, Jon lashed out with his foot, catching the conductor's hand and knocking his gun away. The conductor staggered back a step, his eyes resentful.

"Trip," Jon asked, keeping his gun pointed at the conductor, "are you all right?"

Trip, a hand to the side of his face, struggled to his feet. "Yeah," he mumbled. He picked up his pistol, then retrieved the conductor's gun. He aimed both at the conductor. "Can I shoot him?" he asked Jon. "Please?"

"Maybe later." Jon glared at the conductor. "First, I want some answers."

The conductor glanced around the area. "They should have been here."

"You said that before," Jon said. "Who's they?"

The conductor clamped his mouth shut.

"Who are they?" Jon thundered, waving his pistol in a threatening manner. Even as he was trying to pry information out of the conductor, he had to admit that the weight of the Colt Peacemaker was much more satisfying that that of a phase pistol. And more intimidating. When Jon pulled the gun's hammer back, the click of the mechanism clearly audible in the night air, the conductor immediately started talking.

"All I know," the conductor said, "is one of them's named Grat. And Bob. That's Grat's brother."

The train engineer cursed. "That's the Dalton gang."

Motioning for Trip to keep an eye on the conductor, Jon asked the mail clerk, "What's in the mail car that robbers would want?"

"Payroll for the army posts in the Arizona and New Mexico territories," the clerk replied.

Jon's mind was racing. The robbers had apparently pulled off a similar heist just the day before, which had led to the long delay in St. Louis because that train had derailed. The robbers should have been waiting for this train to come along, since they had gone to the effort to block the tracks. Where were they?

Jon had no idea if they could put up a defense against armed bandits, or even if they should. More passengers could be hurt or killed in the ensuing fight. And then there was the whole problem of messing with the events of this time line. He had to try to keep his and his officers' involvement to a minimum.

But it wasn't in his nature to wait for trouble to come to him. The first order of business, he decided, was to secure the conductor so he couldn't cause any more problems. He asked the clerk, "Have you got some rope or something we can tie him up with?"

"Sure thing," the clerk said. "Be right back."

As the clerk hurried off, Trip asked, "Now what, Captain?"

Aware of the curious gazes of the train's engineer and fireman, Jon turned to address them. "Now, gentlemen, we clear the tracks."


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Thank you to those who are reading! I hope you're enjoying this story.

CHAPTER 10

Trip and Jon, along with the train's engineer and fireman and a number of able-bodied male passengers, got to work clearing the tracks. T'Pol and Travis were helping people who had been hurt when the train had come to its sudden stop. The conductor was tied up in the mail car where the clerk was keeping an eye on him until he could be turned over to the authorities down the line.

The night was quiet, broken only by the subdued rumble of the engine, the conversation of the men as they worked, and, every once in a while, a sharp hissing noise. Trip couldn't figure out what it was, or why no one else seemed to react to it. After a while, he decided to ignore it. The sound was likely steam escaping from the train's engine, a safety measure to avoid an explosive buildup of pressure. He chalked up his jumpiness to being worried about the train robbers showing up any minute.

Everyone working to clear away the blockage had agreed that, even though they were in a hurry, leaving the debris right next to the tracks would only encourage the yet-to-be-seen robbers to try again if they weren't successful this time. So they had been dragging pieces down off either side of the elevated rail embankment and deliberately not making nice, neat piles. Trip pulled a tree limb off the stack and set off with it down the slope. He had reached the bottom when he heard the peculiar noise again.

"Pssst!"

Trip was able to pinpoint it as coming from a grove of trees next to the embankment. He dropped the tree limb and reached for his gun. He took a couple of cautious steps toward the trees. "Who's there?"

"Keep your voice down, Commander," came the hushed reply.

Trip looked back up over his shoulder to where the others were working. Everyone was too busy to notice what he was doing. He walked toward the trees, but didn't put his gun away. "Daniels?" he called softly. "That you?"

"Who else would be calling you by your Starfleet rank?" was the terse reply. "Over here."

Trip moved in among the first few trees. He couldn't see much in the darkness. "Where?"

"Here."

"Damn it!" Trip said, drawing back as if burned. "Still having trouble, I see."

Daniels' image, through which Trip had almost walked, was right in front of him. There was no question Daniels wasn't really there. The outline of the man was blurred, and while Trip's breath was coming out in frosty puffs, there was none from Daniels.

"Whether I'm having trouble is not important," Daniels said. "You have to clear the track and get on your way."

He would be helping with that very thing if Daniels hadn't interrupted him, Trip thought peevishly as he stuck his gun back in his belt. "What do-" he started loudly, only to be shushed by Daniels. He tried again in a whisper. "What do you think we're doing!"

Daniels nodded. "Right. I'm a little anxious."

"_You're_ a little anxious?" Trip asked. "Those robbers could come along any moment."

"Not in the next few minutes they won't."

Trip hoped Daniels wasn't going all mysterious again. It irritated him to no end when Daniels would hint that he knew what was going to happen but wouldn't give any specifics, especially when it concerned Trip himself. "What the hell are you talkin' about?"

"Although there is a strict rule of noninterference with past events, I, ah, made an exception in this case." Daniels gestured farther down the line. "The robbers set up camp down there to wait for the train." The expression on his face was by turns sheepish and self-satisfied. "Seems their horses got spooked and ran off."

A smile slowly spread across Trip's face. That explained the absence of the would-be robbers. "I take it you did the spooking?"

The image of Daniels nodded, his grin matching Trip's. "So now the infamous Dalton gang is off chasing their horses all over southeastern Colorado. I didn't want to do it, because if this doesn't work out, I'm going to be in big trouble with my superiors. But if the robbery went through, it would have had dire consequences for the future."

That was what Daniels always said. The fact that Trip got tired of hearing it didn't make it any less valid, however. "Dire consequences for us?" he had to ask. "Or for someone else on the train? Or maybe even one of the robbers?"

"Quit asking questions that I'm not supposed to answer," Daniels said. "Anything that happens now would have some type of consequences, whether large or small, for everyone in the future. That's the way the temporal ripple effect works."

Trip hadn't believed that Daniels would tell him, but it had been worth a shot, although he could have done without the temporal double-talk. He looked up at the men tearing down the pile of tree limbs and logs in the illumination of the train's headlight. No one was close enough to overhear. "Have you figured out how to get us back?"

"Almost," Daniels said. "I shouldn't have come here, but-"

"Trip!" Jon's voice rang out. "Where are you?"

Trip looked back up the embankment. He could see Jon silhouetted in the glare of the train's headlight. He almost called out to him, but that might draw the attention of the other men.

"You better go, as should I," Daniels said, and disappeared.

Trip stared at the spot where Daniels' image had been. He wished he could have gotten more information from the man. Still, he thought as he turned to trudge up the embankment, it was good to know Daniels had bought them some time to get out of their immediate predicament.

Jon was waiting for him at the top of the embankment. "Where did you get off to?"

Trip drew Jon away from the others clearing the tracks. "Guess who paid us another visit?"

* * *

Travis held slats of wood in place as T'Pol wrapped strips of torn-up tablecloth around them to fashion a splint on the broken arm of the night porter. The man had had the misfortune of being standing when the engineer had jammed on the train's brakes. The porter's forearm had taken the brunt of the impact when he had crashed to the floor.

Travis and T'Pol had come across him, his dark brow shiny with sweat, on the floor where he had fallen. Although he was in considerable pain, he had insisted they look after the passengers first. As a result, T'Pol and Travis had cleaned minor scrapes, washed and bandaged small cuts, and reassured shaken passengers before they had been able to attend to the more severely injured porter.

Isaac, who had done his own check on the passengers before joining them, held a lantern to give T'Pol better light as she worked. He told his fellow porter, "Once we get going, it will be less than an hour before we get to La Junta. I'll see about getting you on the eastbound when we get there."

As T'Pol tied the last knot in a strip of tablecloth holding the splint in place, Travis glanced questioningly at Isaac.

"He can't work with a broken arm," Isaac explained. "I'd just as soon know he was safely on his way back home than leave him in La Junta to fend for himself."

T'Pol slipped a length of tablecloth under the splint to make a sling.

"It hurts bad," the man said with a grimace.

"Some of that is residual pain from setting it," T'Pol told him. "If there is a doctor in the town at the next stop, you may be able to obtain some analgesics."

"Ana-what?" the man asked.

Travis doubted the word "analgesics" was in common usage at this time, so he said, "Something to dull the pain. You know, like laudanum."

So far, Travis thought, T'Pol had been doing well keeping her real identity a secret. Most of the people with whom she had come into contact during their first aid ministrations had believed she was a reporter; apparently gossip traveled as fast on a train as it did on a starship. He was hoping they would take her natural reticence, which could be mistaken for high-bred aloofness, as part of her being a lady of the Gilded Age, and not an alien from several centuries in the future. Unfortunately, there was no way to disguise the way she talked. He didn't know if she could dumb down her vocabulary if she tried.

As for Travis himself, ever since Isaac had told him that the conductor was being held under guard, he had felt a lot better. Of all the people on the train, he was glad it had been the conductor who was working with the robbers. He simply didn't like the man.

With Isaac's help, Travis was able to get the injured porter to his feet. "Where to?" Travis asked.

"We'll get him settled in the porters' sleeping area," Isaac said, jerking his head toward the car's front exit.

Isaac led the way with the lantern. Travis followed, supporting the injured porter. T'Pol, carrying what was left of their supply of towels, followed after them. They had to go through the next passenger car to get to the porters' area. Several people whom they had helped nodded in greeting as they passed by.

Once the injured man was comfortable on a bunk, Travis asked T'Pol, "Should we find the captain?"

"Yes," she said. "I can tell him that all the injured have been treated, and we can check on the progress they have made clearing the tracks." She looked at Isaac. "The passengers will probably wish to know when we will resume our journey."

Isaac stepped ahead to open the door to the outside for her. "I appreciate your help, Miss Paul. I don't know that I could have fixed up poor Samuel's arm as good as you did."

Travis flashed back to a conversation he'd had with T'Pol in the mess hall a few months earlier. She had "gone all Vulcan," as Trip called it, saying something about the needs of the many outweighing the needs of the few, and that advanced species had a duty to guide and protect more primitive races. He watched in dreadful anticipation as she opened her mouth to reply to Isaac, almost certain she was about to make another Vulcan pronouncement, but he had no idea how to head her off. She seemed to have second thoughts, however, about whatever she was going to say. "You are welcome," she told Isaac with the regal bearing of a queen to one of her subjects.

T'Pol swept out of the car, one hand holding up her long skirt to keep from stepping on it as she turned in the direction of the stairs. Travis let out a long breath.

Isaac was smiling. "She's quite the lady, that one," he said.

Travis had no chance to reply, for a cry came from the foot of the car's platform stairs. "T'Pol?" he called as he rushed past Isaac out of the car. "Are you all right?" He hurried down the stairs, Isaac on his heels, to where she was standing.

"I am fine, En- Travis," she said. Around one of her hands was a towel; the others were scattered at her feet. "I believe the stair railing was damaged during our precipitous stop."

Travis followed her gaze to the metal railing. A large section of the top rail was mangled, and in one spot, it had broken, leaving a jagged edge sticking up. The car must have been pushed into the one in front of it, damaging the platform area. It bordered on the miraculous that none of the cars had jumped the tracks.

"I did not mean to alarm you by crying out," she continued. "I was startled."

Isaac was looking at the towel around her hand. "I think you were more than startled, ma'am," he said gently. "Your hand needs attention."

Travis could see dark splotches seeping through the terrycloth towel. She must have cut herself on the ragged edge of metal railing. Thank goodness the towel was blue, he thought, as the color of her blood wasn't as apparent as it would have been if the towel was white. If she continued to bleed, however, Isaac would notice, especially if he moved closer with the lantern. Travis needed to get her back to their own car to take care of her injury, and get away from Isaac before he could see that her blood was the wrong color.

"It is nothing more than a scratch," T'Pol insisted.

"No, it's not," Travis said. "Why don't I help you back to our... that is, Captain Archer's car... and help you get that cleaned up? Isaac can check on how they're doing clearing the tracks."

"Very well," she said.

Travis grabbed the towels T'Pol had dropped, and they started off toward the rear of the train, walking along the tracks. To his dismay, however, she stopped almost immediately and turned back.

"Isaac?" she said.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Please arrange for some water to be brought to us," she said. "The pitcher in the washroom is broken."

"Yes, ma'am."

Travis let out a silent breath of relief as T'Pol turned back toward their car again. "Thanks, Isaac," he said before falling in step with her.

He didn't see the head porter looking after them curiously, or his puzzled frown when he held the lantern to look closely at the mangled railing.


	11. Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

Jon and his officers were sitting around the main table in the Pullman. None of them felt like going back to bed because they would be stopping shortly in La Junta where the conductor would be handed over to a federal marshal.

In the early morning light, Jon could see undulating grassland all the way to the horizon outside the car's windows. There weren't any buildings to be seen. There weren't many trees, either. The last large group of trees he could recall was the one where Trip said he had talked to Daniels. He wished he could have talked to Daniels himself, but he wasn't sure he would have been able to get any more information out of him than Trip had.

T'Pol, sitting across from him, finished explaining why her hand was bandaged. "Fortunately, the cut is not deep enough to require stitches."

"I hope you're up to date on your tetanus shots," Jon said to her.

"I was inoculated against every possible human disease communicable to Vulcans as well as against harmful Earth bacteria before my posting to the Vulcan Consulate in San Francisco," she replied.

"That was before your assignment to _Enterprise_, right?" Jon asked.

"Yes."

"Sure they're still good?" he teased her.

She gave him a bland stare.

"I'll take that as a yes," he said with a smile.

Jon attributed his good mood to the fact that they were on their way again, and that they had helped foil a train robbery. Now, if their luck held, Daniels would have a way to send them home when they got to San Francisco.

He realized that they had been lucky in keeping T'Pol's true nature a secret. Not that he thought anyone from the Gilded Age would believe she was from another planet, but he would rather not have to come up with some bogus explanation for the color of her blood.

He had originally thought that they should burn the green-bloodied towel to dispose of evidence of her alienness, but there wasn't a handy fireplace or wood stove; the Pullman had the latest technology in heating with a hot air furnace under the floor. Travis had gotten rid of the towel through the toilet chute in the washroom after the train was rolling again. The chances of someone coming across it in this sparsely populated area were small, and the substance on it might not even be recognized as blood. It was likely animals would carry the towel away, if they weren't put off by the copper-based substance on it, and worry it to pieces. In any case, he and his officers would be far away and the towel wouldn't be connected to T'Pol if it was ever found.

* * *

The train pulled into the station at La Junta. After the usual flurry of departing passengers and the bustle of new boardings, Isaac went to the private Pullman. Travis opened the door at his knock.

"Could I see Captain Archer, please?" Isaac asked.

As was his habit, Travis looked over his shoulder as if seeking permission before saying, "Sure. Come in."

Isaac walked in, passing the open door of the washroom. A casual glance showed him that there were a few of the blue towels folded neatly on the wash basin, but most were missing. Miss Paul and Travis had used a lot of them, along with that fine tablecloth they had used to tie up the splint on Samuel's arm, to wash cuts and bandage sprains. What he had really been hoping to see, however, was the towel Miss Paul had used to wrap her hand after she had cut herself a few hours earlier, but it was nowhere in sight.

"Isaac!" Captain Archer greeted him from where he sat at the large table with Miss Paul and Mister Tucker. "What can we do for you?"

Isaac was taken aback. A passenger, especially an important one, never asked what he could do for a porter, although by now he should have expected this kind of behavior from Captain Archer and his party. He regained his composure by straightening his jacket. "The marshal is going to be along to talk to you about the conductor."

"I figured that would happen," the captain said, "since Mister Tucker and I were partially responsible for catching him."

"Mostly responsible, from what the train engineer said," Isaac said. "The marshal will want to know if Mister Tucker wants to press charges."

"I'd love to," Mister Tucker said. He rubbed the side of his face as he looked toward Captain Archer. "It's still sore where he hit me."

Isaac believed these people would do the right thing, but they were also in an all-fired hurry to get to California, although he didn't know why. "Your word would go a long way toward locking that man up for a long time. But if you press charges, you'll have to get off the train so you can be here for the trial. That might take a while."

That seemed to settle the matter, for Captain Archer said, "We'll pass on pressing charges. We can't afford to lose any time." He looked at Mister Tucker. "Sorry, Trip."

The other man nodded. "Just as well. We shouldn't-"

Isaac watched interestedly as Mister Tucker abruptly clamped his mouth shut. He wondered what it was that the man thought they shouldn't do.

Captain Archer turned to Isaac. "Would it be possible to get some breakfast?"

The abrupt change of subject left Isaac still curious. "Breakfast is ready," he said, adding carefully, "if Travis could come to the dining car to get it?"

Travis was already on his way to the door. "What's on the menu this morning?"

What with all the carryings-on with the line blocked, the conductor being in cahoots with robbers, arranging to have Samuel put on the eastbound, and getting the new passengers squared away, Isaac hadn't thought to check. "I'm not sure, but I know it will be good, now that Mister Harvey's company is in charge of the dining car. I do think the cook is whipping up something special for you all." He chanced a look at Miss Paul, whose hand was wrapped neatly in a piece of tablecloth fabric; not a trace of blood showed. "Once again, ma'am, thank you for your assistance with the passengers who were hurt."

Her face expressionless, she replied, "It was...my pleasure."

It seemed to Isaac that it was difficult for her to say those words. She was still gracious, but more stand-offish than usual. Maybe her hand was hurting.

Travis was waiting by the door. "Come on, Isaac. I could eat a horse."

Captain Archer and Mister Tucker laughed at that, but Miss Paul didn't even crack a smile. Although she was a lady, there was definitely something strange about her. Eccentric, too, he thought; he didn't remember ever seeing her without one of her hats.

Isaac and Travis left the Pullman together. After they stepped over the coupling to the dining car's rear platform, the head porter put out a hand to keep the younger man from entering. "There's something I want to ask you."

"What's that?" Travis asked.

"What happened to the towels from Captain Archer's car?"

"We used them to help the passengers who were hurt," Travis said. "You know that."

"What about the one Miss Paul used after she cut herself on the railing?"

Travis' gaze, which had been on his face, darted away. When he looked back, he shrugged. "If it doesn't turn up, I'm sure Captain Archer would be happy to reimburse you for it."

That was the least of Isaac's worries at the moment, although it probably would come out of his pay. But Travis hadn't answered his question. "I saw where she cut herself on that railing," Isaac said. He lowered his voice. "There was blood on it."

Travis didn't say anything, but his eyes grew wary.

"Everybody bleeds red, no matter what color their skin is," Isaac went on. "Don't tell me I was seeing things. I saw her blood. It was green."

"I should see about Captain Archer's breakfast," Travis said.

Travis tried to slip by him, but Isaac grabbed him by the arm. "It was green, I tell you. That's not natural."

Travis didn't struggle. Instead, he calmly put his hand over Isaac's where it was grasping his arm. He looked Isaac directly in the eyes. "Miss Paul and the others are good people. All we want is to get to San Francisco without any trouble." He gently removed Isaac's hand from his arm. "I can't say anything else, except please don't tell anyone what you saw. I have to ask you to trust me on this."

"Are you different, too?" Isaac asked.

Travis' expression was blank for a moment, then his eyes crinkled up as he smiled broadly. "If you're worried about my blood..." He reached behind him and pulled a knife from his waistband.

Isaac had seen Travis use that knife to cut up towels for bandages. After a lifetime of reading passengers' moods, surely he couldn't have misjudged Travis that much, but he took a step back anyway. Maybe he should have kept what he had seen to himself after all.

Instead of lunging at him, however, Travis looked at the knife in his hand. "Isn't there an Indian custom out this way?" he asked. He took a deep breath, then gritted his teeth as he used the knife's blade to make a small nick in the palm of his hand. A few drops of his blood, which to Isaac's immense relief was red, welled up. "Now, give me your hand."

Isaac stared at him.

"Come on," Travis said in a cajoling tone. "We'll be blood brothers, and that way you know I would never do anything to hurt or betray you. I'll expect the same of you, of course."

"No," Isaac said, keeping his hands out of Travis' reach.

Travis looked hurt. "Don't you trust me?"

Everyone in Captain Archer's party had been unfailingly kind and courteous to Isaac. They had gone out of their way to be of help when needed. That spunky Miss Paul - who Travis had called by her pen name when she had cried out - had even stood up for Travis when the conductor had been such a jackass. Seeing her cut down that pompous man with a few choice words had been very satisfying to every man of color working on the train.

He had never thought Travis was a liar. He still didn't. Travis had neither agreed nor disagreed that Miss Paul's blood was green. All he had done was ask that he not tell anyone what he had seen. Besides, he thought, if Travis had wanted to kill him, the strapping young man probably could have done it by now.

"Not my hand," Isaac said, taking off his jacket. "That could upset the passengers if they see it." He rolled up the sleeve of his white shirt, the goosebumps rising on his skin not solely the product of the cold morning air. "There," he said, indicating a spot on his arm near his elbow.

Travis carefully poked his skin with the tip of the blade. As a red dot of blood appeared on Isaac's arm, Travis put his hand over it, smearing their blood together. "There. Blood brothers."

Isaac pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the spot. "You do this with Captain Archer and the others?"

Travis laughed. "No, but we're as good as family. Sometimes better, I think. We've been through a lot together."

Isaac rolled down his sleeve and slid his jacket back on. He was going to have to accept the fact that he might never know what was going on with Captain Archer and the others traveling with him. A lot of that acceptance had to do with Travis himself, who struck him as an honorable man.

Maybe it was just as well that Travis hadn't answered his question. Green blood wasn't something anyone would believe unless they saw it.

As they entered the dining car, Isaac said, "You sure have one strange family."

* * *

"Isaac had me cornered," Travis said over breakfast a short time later. "I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to lie to him."

"And now you're blood brothers," Jon said before taking a bite of pancakes. The cook had outdone himself. How much of that was due to the new dining service aboard the train and how much was in appreciation for their help in subduing the conductor and aiding the injured passengers, he didn't know. There was almost too much food. The pancakes were feathery light, the syrup had been warmed, the slices of bacon and grilled potatoes were crisp, and the muffins smelled like they had just come out of the oven. He reached for a muffin. "I hope Isaac having suspicions about us isn't going to complicate matters."

"As long as there are no more incidents which cause him to question us, perhaps not," T'Pol said as she carefully spread strawberry preserves on a slice of toast on her plate. Being handicapped with one bandaged hand, she used her good hand to move the knife back and forth. "Train travel appears to have affected my coordination. I will endeavor to be less clumsy in the future." She indicated the jar of preserves. "I believe you requested some of this."

Trip shook his head. "No, thank you." He sighed and patted his stomach. "Mister Harvey's food is everything it was cracked up to be. I haven't had a breakfast like this since I don't know when."

Jon put his napkin on his plate. "Let's just hope the business with the marshal doesn't take long, and we can be on our way again."


	12. Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

In Trip's opinion, influenced by his fondness for old movies, the federal marshal was the picture of a Western lawman. The marshal was tall with chiseled features baked by the sun. He wore a holster with a six-gun strapped on one hip, a badge pinned to his leather vest, and a Stetson hat on his head.

The marshal got right to the point after Travis showed him into the Pullman. He asked Jon to give his version of what had happened. When Jon was finished telling about the conductor being subdued and the tracks being cleared, the marshal turned to Trip where he was seated at the main table. "Do you want to bring charges against the conductor since he attacked you?"

Trip and Jon had already talked about this. Much as Trip would have liked to stick around and see that the conductor got what he deserved, they didn't need another delay in getting to San Francisco. "No," he answered.

"That's what I thought you'd say," the marshal said. "Sometimes it takes time for justice to be served, and I've been made to understand that you folks are in a hurry." He tucked the small pad of paper on which he had been making notes into his vest pocket. "I'll present your comments at the trial. Thank you for your time, gentlemen." He tipped his hat toward T'Pol. "Ma'am."

Travis, who had been standing a discreet distance away during the conversation, followed the marshal to the door to close it behind him.

Trip looked at Jon seated across from him and T'Pol. "He's been 'made to understand' we're in a hurry? Sounds like someone gave him some orders that he didn't particularly agree with."

Jon shrugged. "I can only think that Henry Flagler has been in contact with the marshal by telegraph."

Travis returned to sit with them at the table. "I did tell Isaac that we want to get to San Francisco without any trouble."

"Perhaps Isaac told the marshal," T'Pol said.

"A federal marshal wouldn't be influenced by a train porter," Trip said. "It had to be somebody important." He thought for a moment. "You don't think Daniels had something to do with this, do you? I know he's skittish about messing with the time line, but he seemed awfully pleased with himself after he scared off the robbers' horses."

His last comment was punctuated by a shrill blast of the train whistle.

"I don't think Daniels would chance that sort of involvement if he didn't absolutely have to," Jon said as the train began to move. "Hopefully, this is all behind us, and we won't have any more problems the rest of the way to San Francisco."

"I'm not so sure about that," Travis said. He picked up the train schedule from the table. "We're going through the New Mexico and Arizona territories next."

"Not more train robbers?" Trip asked.

"Maybe," Travis said, "but there used to be fighting between the native peoples and settlers in that area."

"What do you mean by 'used to be'?" Trip asked in amusement. "Do you mean in our past, or in this time's past?"

Travis laughed. "Both, actually. Most of the fighting around here was over by now." His expression clouded. "I shouldn't be laughing. A lot of people were killed, and there was a lot of injustice on both sides. In fact, I think there was..." He paused to scratch his head. "...will be a horrible massacre of native Americans later this year."

"Wounded Knee," T'Pol said.

Trip looked at her with something close to astonishment. "How do you know about that?"

"Any Vulcan having contact with humans is expected to study your history," she said. "The massacre at Wounded Knee will take place on the Lakota Reservation in the state of South Dakota in December of this year. Between one hundred fifty and three hundred Lakota men, women, and children will be killed, as will more than twenty cavalry soldiers." She looked at Trip in that way that made him think she was holding him personally responsible for all the bad things humans had ever done. "Two hundred sixty-three years in your past is not ancient history."

Trip almost spat out an angry comment about Vulcans always harping on humans not having outgrown their violent tendencies before he realized that some Vulcans of his time might have been alive that long ago. Not many, but a few. They were an incredibly long-lived species. To them, Wounded Knee could be considered recent history. Not for the first time, Trip wondered exactly how old T'Pol was.

"I'm surprised," he said at last, "that you know about that particular event. It wasn't one of humanity's shining moments, and it wasn't even close to the scale of something like World War III."

T'Pol acknowledged his concession with a dip of her head. "It was, by all accounts, quite barbaric. Later generations would condemn the massacre as well as the circumstances that led to it."

Jon leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table as the train gathered speed. "The last thing we need to run into right now is open warfare between settlers and indigenous peoples." He held his officers' gazes for a long moment. "This isn't our time. No matter how distasteful we find some of the circumstances, we cannot interfere."

Travis looked chastened. "Yes, sir."

Poor Travis, Trip thought. Stuck in the role of servant, he was experiencing some of the worst of this era. He himself could understand the appeal of seeing the Wild West in person; the marshal's visit had been like something right off the silver screen.

But the captain was right. They could observe all they wanted, but they shouldn't have any more interaction with the people of this time than could be helped. They definitely shouldn't get involved, not unless they wanted to take a chance on changing history.

* * *

Jon was wide awake when the train left La Junta, headed for points south. After the adrenaline of the early morning activities wore off, however, and combined with the huge breakfast he had eaten, he found himself fighting off yawns. He could hardly keep his eyes open.

But he came instantly awake when, from his spot in one of the overstuffed chairs, he saw a sign out the window with the name of the town they were approaching. "Are we on the right line?" he asked in alarm, knowing that La Junta, which they had left several hours earlier, was a railroad hub with lines heading off in several directions. "Isn't Las Vegas in Nevada?"

"We're in New Mexico territory," Trip reassured him. "This isn't the better-known Las Vegas famous for gambling."

"Oh." Jon settled back into his seat. He tried but failed to stifle another yawn as his weariness came rushing back.

He wondered why he felt so tired. True, he had been up half the night, but he usually had more stamina. The others didn't seem to be particularly fazed by the recent excitement, although in his defense, he did have a few years on them. Except for T'Pol, but she was Vulcan, so she couldn't be used as an accurate comparison.

"If you wish to forgo lunch in order to rest," T'Pol said, "we can inform Isaac that a midday meal is not required."

Jon didn't know which was worse: feeling so tired, or knowing that his officers were picking up on it. In any case, he felt no need to eat any time soon. That huge breakfast had been more than enough to last him most of the day. "You go ahead and get something to eat if you want," he told her, "but I think I'll just take a little nap."

He reached over to pull the window curtain near him shut, blocking out the sunlight, before leaning his head against the padded back of the chair.

* * *

The captain had fallen asleep. Trip was playing a card game that required no one else's participation. Travis was tidying the car. T'Pol decided it would be an opportune time to make more notes about their travels.

It was fortunate that it had been her left hand that had been injured; although she was ambidextrous, she favored her right hand for writing. She would have preferred to make notes with an audio-recording device as was her practice on the ship, but there was a certain satisfaction to putting a writing utensil to paper. She also realized that while she had no need of notes for stories except to provide veracity for her role as a newspaper reporter, she could transfer the information to her personal log once they returned to _Enterprise_. The notes could provide valuable insight into this era in Earth's history.

She had much to record since the last time she had jotted down notes. She started with the attempted train robbery. After detailing how she and Ensign Mayweather had assisted the passengers, she paused to consider the lack of awareness of her surroundings that had led to her injury.

Of all the _Enterprise _contingent, she needed to be the most careful. She would be the easiest to spot as being out of place. Her disguise had already been compromised to a degree, as Isaac had determined she was different from the others. She could not go back and undo her injury, however, so there was no sense in dwelling on it. Isaac would either keep her secret or he would not. If it was the latter, they would deal with that when the time came.

Her injured hand, she reflected, was the latest in a series of incidents on this journey which had left her unsettled. Each incident could be explained, such as the nausea caused by a combination of motion sickness and the odor of animal flesh, and the unaccustomed near-panic crossing the Mississippi River, which she believed was an inherent Vulcan reaction to large, flowing bodies of water. But all of them taken together made her wonder if there was something else at work.

Across the table from her where he was arranging the playing cards in rows, Trip asked, "Sure you don't want to learn how to play poker?"

"Yes, I am sure," she said.

"You'd be great," he told her, one of his legs bouncing up and down with nervous energy. "You already have a poker face, although you might have trouble with bluffing."

T'Pol, adding her ability to concentrate to the list of things that weren't what they should be, put down her pencil and looked at him. "I am familiar with the concept. Vulcans, however, do not bluff."

She reviewed what she had written, then picked up her pencil to continue, only to be interrupted again by Trip.

"How about a simpler card game? Something with no bluffing involved?"

It was more difficult to put her thoughts on paper than it should have been, even with Trip interrupting her. Perhaps a distraction would keep him from distracting her. "You appear restless," she said. "Might I suggest you visit the dining car for some refreshment?"

* * *

Trip took T'Pol up on her suggestion. A visit to the dining car was what he needed. Or to be more precise, he needed to get out of the Pullman car. The novelty of traveling by train was beginning to wear off; he was itchy to do something besides sit around in late nineteenth-century luxury. What it came down to, he thought, was that he was used to keeping busy. They were still facing several long days of traveling with hardly anything to keep him occupied.

Travis tagged along with him to the dining car. Several people seated at tables smiled in greeting or said hello as the two men wended their way through the car. Despite their effort to maintain a low profile, it seemed to Trip that everyone with Captain Archer had become a minor celebrity after the attempted train robbery.

Isaac, poking his head out of the kitchen area to check on the diners, spotted them as they sat down at a table. "Mister Tucker! Travis!" he said with a broad smile. "Have you finally come to join us for a meal?"

"I'm afraid not," Trip said. "We were wondering if you could rustle us up something simple like sandwiches to take back to our car."

Isaac's brow creased as he frowned. "Everything all right? Miss Paul's not feeling poorly again, is she?"

"She's working on her stories," Travis told him. "And Captain Archer doesn't want anything to eat. He's still full from that huge breakfast."

"You liked it all right, then?" Isaac asked.

"I don't know when I've had a better breakfast," Trip said, patting his stomach.

"I'll be sure to tell the cook." Isaac started to turn toward the kitchen, but stopped. "Getting restless, Mister Tucker?"

It must be pretty obvious that he was bored, Trip thought. "A little. Even after all that excitement this morning, I'm still kind of keyed up."

Isaac considered him for a moment. "Travis here says you were some sort of engineer on Captain Archer's ship."

"That's right," Trip said cautiously. He shot Travis a glance, wondering exactly what the helmsman had told Isaac. The only type of engines on seagoing vessels at this time had to be steam-driven. They certainly didn't have anything that used dilithium or antimatter.

"I just told him the truth," Travis said. "You're the best man with any engine."

"How would you like to take a look at the train's engine?" Isaac asked.

Trip's face lit up. Despite the captain's admonition to steer clear of involvement, surely a quick peek at the steam engine wouldn't do any harm. "Your engineer won't mind?"

"I don't think so," Isaac said. "We'll be stopping in Albuquerque shortly. You can go up to the engine then."

As Isaac went to get the sandwiches, Trip's restlessness was replaced by anticipation. It would be like visiting a museum, he thought, but just because something was old didn't mean it didn't have value or interest.

Travis leaned closer. "Please don't tweak the engine to make the train run faster than the rails can handle."


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: We have now reached the halfway point in our journey... er, story. I don't know about you, but when I read a story, I like to know how long it is.

CHAPTER 13

Trip was in the cab of the steam engine as the train left Albuquerque. As was often the case when two engineers met, he and his nineteenth-century counterpart had an immediate rapport. Trip soon realized that the quickest way to fend off inquiries about his line of work was to ask the train engineer questions about his. As a result, he was treated to a lecture on how the engine operated, including the need for water stops to make the steam that provided the power to turn the wheels. Trip knew all this already, of course, but he found it fascinating to see in actual use.

He even took over for the fireman, shoveling coal into the firebox. He was covered in coal dust in a matter of minutes, but he didn't mind. He had been beginning to feel like he would explode if he didn't do something physical after being cooped up in the Pullman.

The scenery, he noticed, was changing again. The train had begun a gradual climb toward the Rocky Mountains in the last day or so, but now the elevation was rising quickly. The next leg of the journey would entail crossing one mountain ridge after another, starting with the San Mateo Range, and shortly thereafter, the continental divide. In between, there were dips down into valleys and onto dry plateaus. Sometimes the train could follow the natural lines of the terrain, but in the mountains, they often had to pass through cuts made in the rock. Trip marveled that most of that work had been accomplished with the primitive, unstable explosives of the era and back-breaking manual labor.

All too soon for his liking, they were approaching the next stop. The train engineer allowed him to pull the cord that blew the whistle to announce their arrival in the smallest town Trip had yet seen. Other than the depot, there were only a few ramshackle structures along a dusty road.

Trip shook hands with the engineer and fireman before stepping down from the cab. This was apparently only a water stop, for no passengers either got off or on the train. Looking back over his shoulder as he walked along the cars, he saw the wooden water tower, elevated on stilts, next to the track. The spout was being lowered into position over the steam engine's boiler intake.

He smiled as he made his way back to the Pullman. He was looking forward to that sandwich Travis had taken back to the car for him. He bounded up the Pullman's platform steps and threw open the door.

His good mood took a nosedive as soon as he stepped into the car. Jon was still in the armchair where he had fallen asleep hours ago, his head back and his eyes closed. T'Pol was crouched on one side of him, Travis on the other.

"What's wrong?" Trip asked as he hurried over to them.

T'Pol rocked back on her heels to look up at him. "He will not wake up."

"Why were you trying to wake him?" Trip asked.

"He was moaning in his sleep," Travis said. "It sounded like he was in pain."

Jon opened his eyes. They went wide at the sight of his officers hovering around him, then narrowed to a puzzled squint as he took in Trip's soot-covered face and clothing.

"Seems awake now," Trip said, looking closely at his commanding officer. Jon did look a little pale. "You have a nightmare or something?"

"I don't think so," Jon said. He sat up straighter, rubbing his eyes. "I'm just tired. I don't know why I feel like this. One night's disrupted sleep shouldn't have this kind of effect on me. It's not like we haven't been through periods before where we haven't gotten much sleep."

Jon was right about that, Trip thought. They had gone days with hardly any sleep at all when a crisis had been taking place on the ship. That knowledge only served to make Jon's current condition seem more peculiar.

T'Pol, squatting next to Jon's chair, suddenly sat down awkwardly, her skirt tangled around her legs on the carpeted floor.

Trip held out his hand. "Coordination still off?"

"So it would seem," she murmured as she grasped his hand with her uninjured one.

Trip took a good look at her face as he helped her up. Her skin had a more greenish cast than usual. In a Vulcan, that might be a sign of a fever, although he couldn't go by the heat of her hand in his, as Vulcan body temperature was higher than a human's. He hoped she hadn't gotten an infection from that cut on her hand. A glance showed him that it was still neatly bandaged, with no blood seeping through.

Trip looked questioningly at Travis after T'Pol regained her footing.

"I feel fine," Travis said.

"I seem to be all right, too," Trip said.

"I disagree." T'Pol brushed a speck of soot from her hand before adjusting her skirt. "You have been atypically hyperactive."

"I wouldn't put it that way," Trip said, "but now that you mention it, it does seem like I have more energy than usual. I just did physical labor for a good half hour, and I feel like I could go back and do more." He spied his sandwich, wrapped in a cloth napkin, on the dining table. "I need something to eat first, though."

"You're still hungry after that huge breakfast?" Travis asked.

"That was before I moved about a ton of coal," Trip said. He caught T'Pol's disapproving gaze and looked down at himself. He wasn't covered head to toe in coal dust, but it was close. "I'll clean up after I eat." He sat down at the table to unwrap the sandwich. "Any coffee to go with this?"

"The last thing you need is caffeine," T'Pol rebuked him.

Around a mouthful of roast beef and bread, he retorted, "At least the water has to be boiled to make coffee, so it's safe." He stopping chewing and swallowed, looking suspiciously at the sandwich in his hands. "You don't think we're being affected by something in the food or water?"

"I don't see how that could be," Jon said. He got to his feet and stretched. "We're on Earth. It's typical human food for this time period. We've all been eating the same things."

T'Pol took a seat at the table. "It could be coincidence that three of the four of us are having difficulties-"

"I wouldn't say what I'm experiencing is a difficulty," Trip put in before taking another bite of the sandwich. "I feel great."

"-or it could be something caused by the Tlibrednav system of time transport," she finished, arching an eyebrow in his direction.

"Let's ask Daniels about that the next time he makes an appearance," Jon said. "I can't think of anything here that could be causing three such disparate conditions." He walked over to take a seat at the table. "I'm tired." He looked at T'Pol. "You're not your usual graceful self, and Trip's got more than his share of nervous energy."

"That could be a sign of an increased metabolism," T'Pol said.

"Why am I not affected?" Travis asked worriedly.

Trip swallowed another bite of his sandwich. "Could be that you are affected and you just don't know it."

"Or it could be that three of us are exhibiting symptoms of diverse conditions that could be considered ordinary but for the fact that they are happening at the same time," T'Pol said.

The train whistle sounded, giving notice of their departure from the small town. Within moments, they were moving, the train's couplings giving off the usual clunking and thudding sounds as the cars were yanked into motion.

"What's our next stop?" Jon asked.

Trip reached for the rail schedule which had been left on the table. Sandwich in one hand and the pamphlet in the other, he said, "Navajo Springs. We'll be in the Arizona territory then."

* * *

Jon carefully stepped down from the Pullman's platform stairs at the stop in Navajo Springs. He was capable of taking a brief stroll by himself, but his officers had disagreed. Then again, he thought, maybe they were right to send someone with him; he had been too tired to argue with them.

Trip was in the washroom, performing what ablutions he could with a bowl of water and a towel, while T'Pol tried to get some of the soot out of Trip's frock coat. That had left Travis to accompany him.

He tuned out Travis' desultory attempts at small talk. Walking in the fresh air was reviving him somewhat, but he still felt run down. He was beginning to think T'Pol was right. The only possible reason for three of them to be feeling off had to be connected to the alien system of time transport. That wasn't the only factor they had in common, but even Daniels had admitted he didn't understand the Tlibrednav technology.

That didn't explain, however, why Travis was his usual self. Jon cast a glance at the robust young man striding along next to him. Travis appeared to be in perfect physical condition, which only made Jon feel more tired. He sighed. "This has been a long day," he said. Noticing the faint scowl on his companion's face, he asked, "What?"

"No offense, sir, but..." Travis cleared his throat. "...you slept through a lot of it."

"Yes, I did." Jon tugged at his collar as they walked along. "Dry here, isn't it?"

"Reminds me of that planet with the dilithium miners who were being terrorized by Klingons, except a lot colder," Travis said.

Those had been a long few days, Jon remembered, and he hadn't felt so exhausted then. Not only had they moved all the miners' equipment, they had also relocated the entire settlement to set a trap for the Klingons. The hardest part of that affair had been convincing the miners to accept their help.

Lost in his thoughts, Jon didn't realize that Travis had stopped several paces behind him. He turned to see his helmsman looking off into the distance. Following his gaze, he saw several men astride horses at the edge of the town. They were all staring in his and Travis' direction.

"Not more train robbers?" Jon asked, his hand going toward the gun tucked in his belt.

"I don't think so, sir," Travis answered.

Jon could see that the men were dressed differently from the Gilded Age people they had met so far. If anything, their clothing appeared to be a mishmash of pieces that didn't go together. Some had blankets pulled close around their shoulders to ward off the chill of the coming evening, while a couple wore what looked like army cavalry coats. All of them had dark hair that flowed freely down past their shoulders. Most of their horses were of mixed colors, called paints or pintos. All of the men, Jon noted, rode without the benefit of a saddle.

"Native Americans," he murmured.

"They were referred to as Indians in this time period," Travis said softly. "We ought to call them that, too, if we're going to fit in."

"You're right," Jon said. "What do you think they're doing there?"

Travis shrugged. "This used to be their land before it got taken away from them and they were forced onto reservations. There's probably one nearby." He let out a long breath. "It wasn't right."

"There was a lot about this era that wasn't right, despite its gilded name," Jon said. He glanced toward the depot's platform. The rough wooden planks were deserted; any passengers must have already gotten on board. "We ought to get back to our car. The train's going to leave any minute."

To give credence to his statement, Isaac stuck his head out of the dining car's back door. "Time to get going, Captain Archer," he called out.

Travis fell in next to Jon as they walked back to the Pullman. The helmsman seemed pensive.

"What's the matter?" Jon asked him.

"I was just thinking," Travis said despondently. "The West seems different than it does in the movies. I'm not sure I like it. Scarier, I guess. More dangerous."

Jon could feel the eyes of the men on horseback watching as he climbed the steps to the Pullman, and he had to agree.

Noticing the droop in Travis' shoulders, he wondered if maybe the young man wasn't immune to whatever it was that was affecting the rest of them. Most obvious was that his normally enthusiastic nature was missing. It could be that the events of the past few days, especially his role as an underprivileged servant, were getting him down. But it could also be the sign of something more serious. It was possible, Jon thought, that while the rest of them were exhibiting physical symptoms, Travis might be experiencing psychological ones.

He would have to keep an eye on Travis. If he could keep his eyes open, that was.


	14. Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

There was little conversation around the table at dinner that evening. That was fine with Travis. He would rather be alone with his thoughts as the train rolled across the northern portion of the Arizona territory on its way to California.

The others seemed as disinclined to talk as he was. The captain was still kind of out of it despite their walk outside. T'Pol, being Vulcan, was comfortable with the silence. Trip was too busy eating enough to feed a small army to say much.

It had been a strange day, Travis thought. They had been up before dawn because of the attempted train robbery. He remembered the near panic of being woken from a sound sleep by the shuddering of the train as it had careened along the rails with its wheels locked. His anxiety had intensified when T'Pol had declared she was going to see if the passengers needed help; she was going to disobey the captain's orders to stay in the Pullman. He had been afraid she would somehow give herself away as an alien, so he had seen no choice but to go with her to run interference. That resulted in him also disobeying the captain. He hadn't gotten in trouble over it, but he still felt bad about it.

His worst fear had materialized when he realized Isaac had seen T'Pol's green blood after she had cut herself on the busted platform railing. How he had come up with the idea to make the head porter his blood brother, he didn't know. Certainly he sympathized with Isaac's situation; the way people of color were treated, including himself, was like a miasma that had enveloped him. And it wasn't just black people who were downtrodden in this age; the resentment of the watching Native Americans had been palpable. He shivered as he recalled their accusing stares as he and Captain Archer had returned to the Pullman.

But the thing that was bothering him the most was that they didn't know if it was possible to go back to where they belonged. Everything hinged on Daniels being able to figure out the Tlibrednav technology and reversing whatever had happened. What if they couldn't go back? He didn't want to live the rest of his life in the Gilded Age.

"Travis," Jon said, "would you pass the salt, please?"

Travis blinked several times. His vision cleared, but his thoughts remained as bleakly muddled as ever. He looked across the table to see Jon studying him.

"Something wrong, Travis?" Jon asked.

"No, sir," he mumbled. He picked up the salt shaker, which was as ostentatious as everything else in this train car. Made of sterling silver, the shaker was intricately adorned with a pattern of vines and leaves. If he had to live in the Gilded Age for the rest of his life, the closest he would probably get to something like a silver salt shaker would be if he had to polish it, he thought glumly.

"You okay?" Jon asked. "You haven't eaten anything."

As Travis passed the salt shaker to Jon, he saw that Trip and T'Pol were also looking at him. He supposed he could try to evade the issue, say he was tired and go to his bunk. That would just postpone the inevitable, however, because the captain could order him to tell what was bothering him.

"I think everything's starting to get to me," he said.

Jon and Trip traded a concerned glance.

"Elaborate," T'Pol said.

"It's just... I'm feeling..." Travis sighed deeply before looking beseechingly at Jon. "I can't explain it."

"You're not happy," Jon said.

Travis nodded. "I don't even have an appetite." He glanced down at his plate where a thick pork chop and mashed potatoes drowning in gravy were still waiting to be eaten, and pushed it away. "It's a shame, because that looks and smells really good."

He had forgotten about T'Pol's intensified aversion to meat. She held a perfumed handkerchief to her nose for a few moments. When she lowered it, she asked, "You are more unhappy than the current situation warrants?"

"That's just it," he told her. "I don't know."

Jon put down his fork. "I noticed while we were taking a walk that you seemed down. I wondered then if you're being affected like the rest of us."

Travis frowned. "How can that be? I feel fine."

"Physically, maybe," Jon said, "but not emotionally."

Travis had to admit that what Jon had said was true. He wasn't tired like the captain, or clumsy like T'Pol, which was odd because he did have a knack for injuring himself. He wasn't hungry like Trip, but then, all they seemed to do on this train was eat and sleep, so maybe a lack of appetite wasn't unusual since he hadn't been getting much exercise. His normally positive attitude, however, had slowly been deteriorating. He always tried to look on the bright side of things, but that had seemed nearly impossible the last day or so. Everything that had happened had left him worried and tense.

Unable to keep a tremor out of his voice, he asked, "Am I getting a mental illness?"

"There is no evidence to suggest you have an illness, mental or otherwise," T'Pol said. "However, it is possible your emotional state is being affected by an outside influence, causing you to experience depression."

"What should I do?" he asked. "It's not like Doctor Phlox is here and could give me a happy shot."

"If you are referring to a mood-altering medication," she said, "I doubt he would without a proper diagnosis."

"But this is an emergency!" Travis insisted.

"Is it?" she asked with a bland gaze.

T'Pol didn't seem to believe what he was going through was important. Her calmness in the face of his problem was almost enough to make him break down. There was nothing he wanted more right now than to bawl his eyes out, which was strange because, other than when he had found out his father had died, he couldn't remember the last time he had cried.

As T'Pol turned her head, he caught a glimpse of one of her pointed ears. To expect some kind of emotional response from a Vulcan, he told himself, even one with whom he had worked for a couple of years, was out of line. His reaction to what he was perceiving as her indifference was also out of proportion. That thought brought him up short.

"I _am_ being affected," he said out loud. "I'm overreacting to things that normally wouldn't faze me."

Jon said, "The question is what we're going to do about it." His gaze swept over the others as he yawned. "For all of us," he amended.

"Sir," Travis said plaintively, "I'm not sure I can keep pretending to be something I'm not."

Trip, who had finished his meal and was eyeing the pork chop on Travis' plate, spoke up. "The only thing I can think of is to say you've come down with something."

"Well, I have, sort of," Travis said.

"We can cover for you for a day or two," Jon said, "get the meals and so forth, so that you can stay in the car. But I'm not sure that's wise. For one thing, what would we tell anyone who wants to know what's wrong with you? I don't think people of this era, except for the very privileged, took time off because they were feeling down. As for anything else, infectious diseases like smallpox were a big concern in this time period. It might draw more attention to us than we want if people thought you had something like that."

Trip was nodding. "They might want to quarantine all of us if we told them you were sick. And in any case, Isaac's gonna want to see you, make sure you're all right. I don't see how you can avoid him."

"Much as I hate to ask you to continue playing the servant," Jon went on, "it is an important part of our cover."

Trip abruptly tossed his napkin on his plate and slid his chair back from the table. "Maybe we're going about this the wrong way." He got to his feet and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Jon asked.

His hand on the door knob, Trip turned to face them. "I just thought of something that might make Travis feel better."

He was out the door before anyone could question him further. They sat in puzzled silence, Travis nervously tapping his fingers on his leg as he wondered what could possibly be on this train that could make him feel better, until Trip returned with a covered platter a few minutes later.

T'Pol cleared some of the dishes to the side so Trip could set the platter in the center of the table. With a flourish, Trip removed the lid to reveal dessert plates holding slices of dark cake with thick icing.

"Voila!" Trip said. "Chocolate cake."

"How is this supposed to help?" Travis asked, even though his mouth had started watering.

As Trip retook his seat, he asked, "Have you learned nothing from working with Hoshi?"

"That's right," Jon chimed in. "She swears by the restorative power of chocolate."

Travis looked at Trip, who smiled and said, "Go ahead. Help yourself. Just save a piece for me."

As Travis took a plate from the platter, T'Pol asked Trip, "How did you know there was chocolate cake on board?"

"I didn't," Trip replied, "but the train engineer and I were talking about how much better the food was since Harvey took over providing that service. I thought there might be a good chance there was some type of chocolate in the dining car."

"Chocolate was not widely in circulation in this part of Earth at this time," T'Pol said.

"That's true," Trip said, "but Harvey was known for trying out new things. I was willing to bet the cook had something made with chocolate in the desserts."

Travis licked his lips as he picked up his fork. He took a bite of cake and, with eyes closed, savored the first taste, rich and flavorful in a way that could only be described as decadent. This was even better than what Chef on _Enterprise _could do with a cake. The thought of the ship almost sent his rising spirits into a tailspin, but he resolutely pushed his concern away. He didn't want to ruin his returning good mood.

"Looks like it's doing the trick," he heard Trip say.

Travis opened his eyes. Heat rushed to his cheeks as he saw that everyone was watching him, Jon and Trip with amusement, T'Pol with open curiosity. "It's that obvious?" he asked.

"This does seem to provide empirical evidence of Ensign Sato's assertion that chocolate can affect one's emotional state," T'Pol said.

Trip, grinning, took a piece of cake from the platter. But when Jon leaned forward to take a slice, Trip slid the platter out of his reach. "None of that," Trip said. "You don't need a sugar rush that will make you feel even more tired when it wears off."

"He is correct, Captain," T'Pol said. "It might be a good idea to moderate your food consumption. Overeating can increase lethargy."

Jon leaned back in his chair, giving Trip a wry glance. "So this is your brilliant idea? Using food to counteract whatever it is that is making us like we are right now?"

"At least for you and Travis," Trip said. He shrugged. "There doesn't seem to be anything we can do about whatever is causing this, so the best we can do is treat the symptoms."

"You, of course," Jon noted dryly as Trip took a huge bite of cake, "have to eat more than usual because of what appears to be an increase in your metabolism. I, on the other hand, should limit how much I eat."

"That's right," Trip said around a mouthful of cake. He pointed his fork toward the helmsman. "And chocolate seems to be the cure for Travis."

Travis, concentrating on his own piece of cake, couldn't hide a smile. His companions' friendly banter sounded so much like it did on _Enterprise _that his mood took another upswing. Knowing he wasn't in this predicament by himself was a balm that, combined with the chocolate, made him feel better than he had all day.

With their support - and a supply of chocolate, he thought as he reached for a second slice of cake - he just might be able to get through this.


	15. Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

The train crossed the bridge over the Colorado River into California late that night. T'Pol was relieved to find that this crossing did not instill the same degree of uneasiness she had experienced during the passage over the Mississippi River. That was no doubt due, she conceded, to the fact that the Colorado was a mere trickle compared to the size and strength of the Mississippi.

The desert landscape shone under a cloudless sky dotted with stars. In the distance, she could make out rocky wedges called The Needles. She understood the reason for the name, although to her the formations resembled the blades of ancient Vulcan broadswords.

She had never visited this part of Earth during her work with the Vulcan Embassy. She realized now that she would have appreciated this place. Despite being colored brown and tan with stunted, dusty foliage, the landscape reminded her of the reddish-orange vistas of her world. The temperature here probably never dipped below freezing in winter. She imagined that in summer, the environment would be quite Vulcanlike. There would be little rain, and when it did fall, the drops would be pleasantly warm – if they didn't evaporate before reaching the ground.

A rare bout of homesickness surprised her as she considered how far she was from her world, both in space and time. When a noise came from the berth area, she welcomed the distraction from her uncharacteristically emotional state.

When the others had retired hours ago, she had opted to remain awake, knowing she needed to meditate. She was in the sitting area with only one oil lamp burning in a wall sconce. It would have been difficult to meditate in her bunk while hearing the breathing and occasional snoring of the others as they slept nearby.

When she could detect no further disturbance, she resumed her meditation effort, trying to reclaim her focus by silently reciting a calming mantra. Seated next to a window, she gazed at the horizon and began to methodically clear all extraneous thought from her mind.

"Subcommander?"

Startled, T'Pol jerked her head around to see Daniels standing in the middle of the car. "I did not hear you arrive."

"I'm making progress on working around the Tlibrednav system," Daniels told her.

So he had arrived without the customary staticky sound caused by interference from the Tlibrednav system. It was good to know that her hearing had not been affected as had some of her other senses.

Daniels looked around the car until his gaze came to rest on the berths, three of which had curtains drawn shut. "Captain Archer has gone to bed?"

"Yes."

Daniels started off in that direction. It wasn't until he moved that T'Pol realized that what she was seeing was not an image of the temporal agent. There were no blurred edges; he appeared as solid as herself. She rose to her feet, keeping a hand on the chair's arm to maintain her balance against the motion of the train. "Do not disturb the captain."

Daniels turned back to her. "I have new information."

"He is extraordinarily fatigued," she said. "Unless it is vital that he know the information at this moment, he needs to rest. You may tell me what is so important that you had to come here in the middle of the night. I will relay the information to him after he wakes."

"I suppose it won't matter." Daniels stepped back toward T'Pol. "There's a complication with your use of the Tlibrednav time transport system."

T'Pol moved carefully to the side of the car to the wall-mounted oil lamp. She turned up the wick, allowing its illumination to spread. "For me specifically, or for all of us?" she asked as she returned to her seat.

"All of you."

"We are not unaware of a problem, or more accurately, problems," she said flatly as she sat down. "We are experiencing physical and mental changes which we attribute to the Tlibrednav transport system, but each of us is being affecting differently."

Daniels appeared surprised. "You know about that?"

"There is no viable explanation other than coincidence, which seems highly unlikely, for what we are experiencing. However, we do not know why it is occurring."

Daniels widened his stance, bracing himself against the movement of the train car. "Describe the effects."

"Captain Archer is fatigued," T'Pol said, "more so than is to be expected for his level of activity. Commander Tucker's metabolism has increased, making him more energetic than is the norm and, as a result, increasing his appetite. Ensign Mayweather is exhibiting signs of depression."

"What about you, Subcommander?" Daniels prodded when she paused.

"I am not immune," she admitted. "Both my coordination and concentration have been affected."

Daniels rubbed his chin. "The others have been affected either physically or mentally, but you are experiencing both."

T'Pol had realized that, but she had been unwilling to bring it to the others' attention. They were coddling her enough as it was. Their attempts to make things easier for her were unnecessary, but telling them that would only precipitate hurt feelings on their part. As she had learned in her service aboard _Enterprise_, humans responded well to expressions of gratitude for courtesies they had performed. She could hardly deny them that small comfort during this arduous journey.

"I suppose it could be that you are experiencing a wider range of effects because you are of a different species," Daniels said.

"Is this what you came here to tell us?" T'Pol asked. "That the Tlibrednav time transport system has affected us adversely?"

"Well, yes," Daniels said, "that's part of it."

When he stopped, lost in thought, T'Pol asked, "What else?"

Daniels seemed to shake himself. "These changes you are experiencing can become permanent if you are not removed from this time."

"We do not intend to remain here any longer than necessary," T'Pol said, "but it is contingent upon your successful reversal of the Tlibrednav process."

"I know that," Daniels said.

"Then why are you here?" T'Pol asked harshly. Daniels' inability to concisely present the information was irritating her, another indication of her weakening mental control. With an effort, she moderated her tone. "Your time would be better served finding a way to return us to our proper time and place."

Daniels closed his eyes and grimaced. She recognized his expression as one of human exasperation. He started to mutter something under his breath that she couldn't make out. She fleetingly wondered if the human custom of counting to ten to deal with acrimonious emotions was still used in Daniels' time. If he didn't get to the point, and if her control slipped much further, she might have to attempt the same thing.

Less than ten seconds later, however, he opened his eyes and said, "I know why all of you are affected in different ways."

T'Pol's nostrils flared in annoyance as he paused yet again. Her patience nearly at an end, she demanded, "Tell me."

"It's connected to seemingly inconsequential incidents that happened shortly after you were transported," he said. "I've closely reviewed the sequences of your arrival on Earth. Do you remember telling Henry Flagler that Captain Archer was fatigued?"

T'Pol nodded. She had prevaricated to provide time for her and the others to be alone to determine what had happened and to formulate a course of action.

"And when you walked out of the reception area in Flagler's mansion," Daniels continued, "do you remember stumbling?"

She had nearly fallen. At the time, she had paid no attention; there had been more pressing issues at hand. "I remember."

"Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the Tlibrednav system develops adaptations for those who use it," Daniels said. "It's similar to my insertion of a cover story for Captain Archer, but it's not quite the same. The key factor is what happens upon the user's arrival at his destination. The captain, for example, was supposedly tired enough to need to rest. The Tlibrednav programming took that as a cue for his adaptation."

"My moment of clumsiness was also used as a cue," T'Pol said. "Hence, I am plagued by a lack of coordination now. That does not, however, explain my somewhat diminished mental acuity."

"What about your belief that time travel is not possible?" Daniels asked. "Your refusal at first to accept that you had been transported in time could account for slower mental reflexes."

It was possible, she supposed. The other things that had been bothering her, such as sensitivity to odors and uneasiness when passing over the Mississippi River, were already part of her nature. Taken together with the added effects of the alien system, however, meant she was functioning under considerable strain.

She yanked her straying thoughts back in line. "How do you explain Commander Tucker's situation, which is not as debilitating as the conditions being experienced by the rest of us?"

"You, the captain, and Mister Tucker all had beverages in your hands when you arrived, but Mister Tucker was the only one who took a drink."

T'Pol stared at Daniels. That was extremely far-fetched, yet there was a tenuous logic to it.

As if sensing her skepticism, Daniels shrugged. "I know. It hardly makes sense, but then, the Tlibrednav time transport system doesn't make much sense. The only thing that I could come up with to account for the commander's hyperactive state is that he consumed something immediately after the Tlibrednav system put you here. I believe he was also rather energetic in his search of Flagler's library, a trait that has continued. We should be thankful that his increased appetite is offset by his higher energy level."

"And Ensign Mayweather?" she asked.

"He was by himself in the shuttlepod when the transport occurred. He was confused and probably frightened. The Tlibrednav system translated that into a depressed state of mind, heightening his feeling of being alone and dealing with circumstances out of his control."

Daniels had finally provided an explanation, although if she had been functioning at her usual level of reasoning, she believed she could have easily picked it to pieces. At the moment, however, nothing more logical came to mind.

Also unfortunately, given the primitiveness of the era, there wasn't much they could do to combat the detrimental effects of the alien transport system. "I am worried about the captain," she said. "His condition appears to be the most debilitating of all. There was a moment today when he could not be roused from sleep."

Daniels nodded. "I have to agree. While Mayweather's condition could lead to unpredictable behavior, the captain's health is in the most danger." He thought for a moment. "I may be able to implement some type of shielding to provide some relief."

"Is that possible?"

"Yes. I believe it's possible to influence the Tlibrednav system's directives in that area."

T'Pol nodded. In the meantime, the only thing she and the others could do was complete this train trip to San Francisco. "Do you know how you will get us back to our time?" she asked.

"I'm running formulations now," Daniels answered. "I hope to have a way by the time you are in San Francisco."

She did some calculations in her head, feeling an irrational sense of relief that numbers still retained their cool, precise logic. "We should arrive there late tomorrow, provided there are no more delays."

"I should warn you," Daniels said. "You better have your notes ready when you get there."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

He vanished before she could hear his answer. Either there were still limitations to what he could achieve working with the Tlibrednav system, or he had not wanted to give her more information because it concerned the future.

With an un-Vulcanlike sigh, she abandoned her attempt to meditate. She sat down at the table, lit the lamp there, and reached for her notes.


	16. Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16

T'Pol remained awake the rest of the night. She had an idea of what Daniels had meant when he had told her to have her notes ready. Someone was going to ask to see her work. If she could not produce a convincing amount of notes, perhaps even some rough drafts of stories, their ruse could be discovered. At the very least, she would appear derelict in her supposed duty as a reporter; she was never derelict in any of her duties, supposed or not. Because she had so little interaction with people, and because she rarely left the Pullman, most of her notes were along the lines of local color: landscape, weather, birds, and trees, as well as a description of her surroundings in the train car.

She set to work, writing without pause until the tip of her pencil dulled. As she had come to expect, their Gilded Age patron had prepared for every eventuality. Mister Flagler had provided her with, along with a supply of paper and pencils, a small metal device. Shaped like a slender bell with a small handle on one end, it had a slot against which the pencil, when inserted inside the cylinder, could be turned, thereby shaving off wood from around the lead.

There was a small pile of wood shavings next to a stack of papers by the time the first of the three men arose. Trip paid a visit to the washroom before joining her at the table.

T'Pol studied him as he sat down. There was no trace of the nervous energy he had exhibited the day before. "You slept well?" she inquired.

"Like a baby," he said with a smile. "You know, I'm kind of surprised I slept so long. You'd think the way I've been feeling that I wouldn't need my usual amount of sleep." He paused, a thoughtful look on his face. "I don't feel ravenously hungry, either."

His comments confirmed something T'Pol suspected. About an hour after Daniels had left, she had noticed improvement in her ability to concentrate. The proof was on the handwritten pages in front of her. She should have found it difficult to put her thoughts on paper because she had not been able to achieve a sustained level of meditation recently. Instead, she had filled several pages with notes in an ordered, logical manner.

"Daniels was here last night," she told Trip. "I believe he has been successful in implementing a means to protect us from the Tlibrednav transport system's deleterious effects."

* * *

Travis opened his eyes. He could hear T'Pol and Trip talking in the main part of the car.

He had gone to sleep curled in a fetal position in an unconscious attempt to protect himself; he had anticipated that he would feel miserable as soon as he awoke. The two slices of chocolate cake had improved his mood, but he knew it had only been a temporary fix, and mostly psychological at that. As he lay there in his upper bunk, it dawned on him that the chocolate hadn't worn off. He was still worried about getting back to where he belonged, as well as whatever else bad that might happen to him in the meantime, but it didn't have the same gut-wrenching intensity that he had experienced yesterday.

Hearing the voices of Trip and T'Pol, knowing they were aware of how difficult this was for him, buoyed his spirits. He was content to lie there until he heard T'Pol mention Daniels.

He scooted to the edge of the mattress, flung back the bunk's privacy curtain, and jumped to the floor. He landed awkwardly, slipping a little in his stocking feet, and had to grab the bunk frame to keep from falling. When he looked toward the main section of the car, T'Pol and Trip were looking at him in concern.

"Sorry," he said. "I heard you say something about Daniels. Was he here again?"

"Join us, Ensign," T'Pol said, gesturing with her bandaged hand toward a chair at the table. "Then I will only have to repeat this new information once for the captain."

* * *

The sound in the aisle outside Jon's bunk had been made by something hitting the floor. He was instantly awake, wondering what was wrong. Then he heard Travis, on the other side of his curtain, ask about Daniels. From farther away, he could hear T'Pol's reply about new information.

That was enough to get him moving. He winced as he kicked aside his blanket. He must have been in the same position for so long that his muscles had become stiff. But as he reached for the edge of the privacy curtain, he realized that, for the first time in several days, he felt completely awake.

He pulled back the curtain to see Travis walking away down the aisle between the berths.

"Hold on!" Jon called out. "I'll be out in a minute."

"Take your time, Cap'n," Trip called back. "We're not goin' anywhere."

Jon could hear a smile in Trip's voice that, imbued with more Southern drawl than usual, only happened when the engineer was in a good mood. Hopefully, that meant there was good news from Daniels.

He fumbled for his boots below his bunk, found them, and put them on; he had gone to bed in all of his clothes, too tired to remove more than his boots. He strode out into the main area of the Pullman, anxious to hear what T'Pol had to say, but also happy that whatever had been ailing him seemed to have passed.

"You're lookin' pretty chipper," Trip said as Jon sat down. "Well, except for the rumples."

"I'm feeling pretty chipper," Jon said, yanking at his frock coat to smooth out some of the wrinkles. He looked at T'Pol. "Now, what's going on?"

"As I started to tell Commander Tucker," she said, "Daniels was here last night after all of you had retired."

"You didn't wake me?" Jon asked.

T'Pol arched an eyebrow. "I would have, if the information was urgent, and if I believed waking you would not have been detrimental to your health."

Jon dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand. "Has he found a way to send us back?"

"He is still working on it," she said. "However, he has reached the same conclusion as did we: The Tlibrednav system is affecting us adversely."

"For someone who works with time," Trip said with a crooked smile, "Daniels sure is slow. You'd think he could figure stuff out where he's at in the future and make it seem like no time has passed for us here. He might have been able to warn us."

"An intriguing idea," T'Pol admitted. "However, he told me about something else that I believe is already working to our benefit."

During the exchange between T'Pol and Trip, Jon noticed that his first officer seemed less stressed than she had been. She was neither pale nor flushed green, so she must be feeling better physically. She was her usual composed Vulcan self, as evidenced by her keeping the discussion on track. In his opinion, she had been under the most strain of all of them, something he now saw no sign of but for the bandage on her hand.

He looked at Travis seated next to him. There was none of the anxiety and sadness on his helmsman's face that had been there the night before. Across the table, Trip seemed relaxed and not ready to jump up at any moment.

Jon returned his gaze to T'Pol. "Daniels has done something to counteract the Tlibrednav system's effects on us."

"That is correct," she said. Her brow furrowed. "How did you reach that conclusion?"

"I put two and two together and got Daniels," he said. "I'm feeling much better this morning, and the rest of you seem to have recovered."

"You mean it's not the chocolate that's making me feel better?" Travis asked.

"It may have aided you last night," T'Pol said, "but what we are feeling now, or rather not feeling, is a result of Daniels' effort. He informed me he was going to try to shield us from the effects. There was improvement in my ability to concentrate shortly after he left."

Whatever Daniels had done must be working, Jon thought. He didn't feel tired at all. It was a welcome change after spending the last two days in an increasing stupor.

"Daniels did not go into specifics," T'Pol continued. With a severe expression, she added, "There may be limitations to what he was able to do. We do not know if we are protected anywhere we go, or just in this train car. We should be careful."

As the others considered that information, T'Pol picked up the rail schedule, which had become a permanent fixture on the table since their train journey had started. "The next stop is in Tulare."

"Really?" Jon asked in surprise. When he had gone to bed, they had been in Arizona. Now they were more than a third of the way through the California leg of the journey. He got up to look out one of the windows. The sun rising in the east was directly in his view, which meant the train was indeed on a northerly heading.

The train was rolling through a flat region that was already showing signs of the premiere agricultural location it would become in the next century. The long central valley that ran a good length of California was a nice change from the rugged mountains through which they had been traveling. The train should be able to go much faster here than it had in the Rockies.

His anticipation rising, Jon said, "It shouldn't be much farther to San Francisco."

Trip motioned for T'Pol to give him the schedule. "Gonna seem like it takes forever, though," he noted as he looked at their route. "There are a bunch of towns where the train is going to stop. Tulare, Goshen, Fresno, Berenda, Merced..."

"Who's ready for breakfast?" Travis asked, getting to his feet. "I'm starving."

That made Jon smile. His helmsman was definitely feeling better if his appetite had come back. But he didn't want to push the situation since they didn't know the extent of the shielding. "You want someone to go with you to get it?" he asked.

"No, I don't think so," Travis said. He cast a wry glance at Trip. "Unless I going to need someone to help carry all the extra food, that is."

Trip chuckled. "No, just a normal-size breakfast should do me this time."

"Okay," Travis said. "Four of our regular breakfasts, and maybe the cook knows how to fix hot chocolate."

"Ensign," T'Pol said, "you are no longer in need of that substance as an antidepressant."

"I know." Travis grinned from ear to ear. "But I like hot chocolate even when I'm not depressed."

As Travis left the car, Jon enjoyed being to able to sit there and not feel like he was going to nod off at any moment. It was even better knowing that they would soon be at their destination, and hopefully back on _Enterprise _shortly thereafter. He refused to think that, having crossed an entire continent in centuries-old transportation, they could fail now.


	17. Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

Jon and his officers were standing on the Pullman car's back platform as the train rolled into Tulare. They were about to test the limits of Daniels' protective shield.

Jon looked at his helmsman. "How long do we have?"

"Isaac said about an hour, sir," Travis replied. "We're ahead of schedule, so we have to wait until a southbound train gets here and gets out of our way."

The train halted, but before they stepped down, Trip noticed a sign over the depot. "'Southern Pacific Railroad,'" he read out loud. "I thought we were on the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe."

"It's the same train," Travis told him as they stepped down to the ground, "but a different line. We didn't need to do any switching."

T'Pol said, "A mutual agreement for sharing tracks is logical."

With a population of about three thousand, Tulare served as the headquarters for the Southern Pacific, which had spurred the town's growth. A street with business establishments ran parallel to the train tracks, with other streets branching off from the main thoroughfare in an orderly fashion.

Trip rocked up and down on his toes as he watched a stagecoach, its horses' hooves kicking up a swirl of dust, roll down the street. He held up his hand when the others looked at him. "Don't worry. I'm not feeling overactive again. I'm just antsy to get on with this limit testing thing. I'm curious to know exactly how far we can go."

"Let's stay in pairs," Jon said, "the better to keep an eye on each other if anyone starts feeling off again and needs help. T'Pol, you're with me." He pulled his wallet from an inside pocket of his coat and gave several bills to Trip. "In case you see anything we need."

* * *

"I don't know of anything we need," Travis said as he and Trip strolled along a boardwalk in front of local businesses.

"Seeing as how we'll be in San Francisco later today, I don't either," Trip agreed, "but it's nice to have some walking-around money."

What he hadn't said was that he had been concerned about Jon carrying all their funds because he didn't want to give Travis, with his recent bout of depression, one more thing to fret about. So far, they'd hadn't had to buy anything except for their purchases in St. Louis, but Trip knew they were probably going to need to pay for food and a place to stay in San Francisco. What if the captain was robbed or somehow lost all their funds? He supposed they could telegraph Flager for more money, but there was no guarantee the man would oblige them, not to mention it would be embarrassing to admit they'd lost all of it. Dividing up the money seemed the simplest way to avoid that problem.

Travis might be their Gilded Age expert, but Trip was willing to bet that he knew more about the Old West than all the others put together. Bad things sometimes happened, and there was no sense taking any chances. They had already avoided a train robbery as it was.

Tulare, he noted, seemed to be a thriving town. Although it was still early, townspeople were out attending to business and running errands. The two officers stepped aside several times to allow other pedestrians to pass by on the raised wooden walk.

As they passed a shop with a striped pole out front, Trip glimpsed a barber inside giving a customer a shave with a straight razor. After each stroke over the customer's lathered cheeks, the barber flicked the blade clean. Trip definitely wasn't going to miss shaving in the Gilded Age. He gently touched his irritated neck. Maybe he wouldn't have so much trouble shaving if he didn't have to brace himself against the basin stand in the Pullman's washroom, looking in a mirror, while the train was moving, he thought ruefully.

They crossed an intersecting street, down which they could see two men loading heavy burlap bags into a horse-drawn wagon outside a feed store. Opposite the feed store was a Wells Fargo office.

In the next block, they walked past a bank and an attorney's office before coming to a saloon. Trip had to take a look. It would be a shame to come all the way across the American West and not see a place like this when the opportunity arose. He motioned for Travis to follow him inside.

No one was in the saloon except a man behind a polished wooden bar that ran the length of one side of the large room. With his white shirt, bow tie, and leather apron, he had to be a bartender. Behind him was a mirror that was almost as long as the bar, with bottles of alcohol lined up neatly along shelves. Trip let his gaze roam the interior. There were tables and chairs, and a small stage with a piano off to one side. There was even a staircase leading to an upper level, just like in the saloons of almost every Western movie Trip had seen.

"You gents want anything?" the bartender asked.

"No," Trip said. "Just curious to see your place. I like it."

The bartender swelled with pride. "Thank you. The town keeps burning down, so I have to keep rebuilding it, but each time I make it better. You sure I can't get you anything?"

Trip shook his head, seeing his reflection in the mirror do the same. "It's too early for me to be drinking." Besides, he thought, as he tipped his hat toward the bartender, they didn't have that much time before they had to return to the train.

Back outside, they walked another block. A particularly large building had displays of merchandise in its windows, ranging from cast iron skillets and cans of beans to bolts of fabric and cowboy hats. Trip didn't need to see the shop's sign to know it was a general store.

He looked at his companion. "How you feeling?"

Travis shrugged. "Okay, I guess."

"Me, too. I don't think we've reached the limit, if there is one," Trip said. "Let's keep going."

* * *

As the other two officers headed in the direction of storefronts on a street behind the depot, T'Pol asked Jon, "Where should we go?"

Jon looked up and down the tracks. Walking along them would be the simplest thing to do to test the shield's limits, but he felt the urge to take a more interesting walk. Maybe it was the result of being protected from the transport system's adverse effects, or maybe he was tired of being cooped up in the Pullman. He must be feeling a lot better, he realized, if he wanted to venture away from the security of what he had come to think of as his pseudocommand.

"Shall we?" he asked her, indicating the direction opposite of that which Trip and Travis had taken.

When she acquiesced with a dip of her hatted head, Jon told her, "Your Vulcan slip is showing, Miss Paul."

She gave him a puzzled look. He gestured toward her head. She quickly adjusted the ribbons of her hat to cover the ear peeking out.

They started off. As they walked, he looked at her from the corner of his eye. She seemed to be feeling better. Her bandage was smaller, too; she had managed to get one of her gloves on over it. If it weren't for the fact that the scab on her cut had a greenish tinge, she probably could done without either the bandage or the glove.

Directly across from the depot was a livery stable. A man was lounging outside in a chair leaning against the wall. Jon didn't like the interest he was showing in T'Pol. He put his hand in the crook of her arm, not so much to guide her, but as to signal that she was under his protection.

"I don't feel different," Jon said as they walked.

T'Pol gave her head a minute shake. "Neither do I, but we have not gone far."

Past the livery stable was a large open area.

"Watch where you walk," Jon advised as he steered her a few steps to the side.

T'Pol pulled a handkerchief from her reticule. She shook it out, releasing its perfumed scent, and held it briefly to her nose. "Organic transportation does have drawbacks."

Jon chuckled, then pointed toward a spire in the distance. "There's a church at the end of this street. Let's go that far and then turn back."

He helped her step up onto a boardwalk on the other side of the open area. They were in front of a hotel that took up the corner of a block. A man on horseback rode by, dismounting in front of the next building. After tying the horse's reins to a hitching post, he went inside, brushing off his trousers as he went.

Jon could smell fresh bakery goods as they approached the door the man had entered.

* * *

Trip and Travis reached the outskirts of the business district.

"It's probably not a good idea to go much farther," Travis said.

Trip pulled out his watch. "We've got a good forty minutes yet."

"If Isaac's information was correct," Travis noted.

Trip looked at Travis as he put the watch back in his vest pocket. "Sure you're not feeling anxious again?"

"I'm just being practical. The amount of time we'd be here was only an estimate." He smiled. "Isaac did say the engineer would sound the whistle before the train left, so we should be all right."

Trip could see where the street angled away out of town through some trees. "Let's just go a bit farther."

As they set off, Travis said, "I'm not getting that prejudiced vibe here." At the other man's inquisitive glance, he explained, "You know, like I have to stay in the background and not say anything because of the color of my skin. A lot of the people we saw here actually smiled at me."

"They did seem pretty friendly," Trip said. "Maybe it's because there's a more diverse population in California. The people here are probably used to seeing a lot of ethnicities, sort of like on the trading station at Rigel Ten." Recalling his experiences there when they were searching for Klaang, the Klingon kidnapped by the Suliban on their first mission, he added, "Doesn't mean some of 'em aren't prejudiced, though..." He touched the revolver tucked in his belt, reassured by its presence. "...or criminals."

* * *

A waitress brought a whole pie to where T'Pol and Jon were sitting at one of the cafe's dozen or so tables.

"All we got is apple," the waitress said, plunking down a heavy, round pan.

T'Pol could smell the apples, butter, and sugar in the pie. It was not an unpleasant aroma, although much too sweet for her preference. Nonetheless, the lattice-style crust topping the pastry looked intriguing.

"Do you have something we can put this in?" Jon asked.

The waitress, a middle-aged woman with graying hair in a bun and an apron over her gingham dress, gave him a severe look. "You're already taking the pan. We normally don't allow that."

"But I'm paying you for it," Jon said with an ingratiating smile.

The waitress huffed, went back to the kitchen, and returned with a large, white cloth napkin. "That's the best I can do. You'll have to pay for that, too."

"Of course," Jon said affably.

T'Pol watched the exchange without saying a word. She had been concerned when, at the captain's insistence, they had entered the cafe. They had eaten not more than an hour previously; he should not be hungry so soon. She had not felt any of the Tlibrednav system's side effects return, but humans might succumb more quickly. When it had become apparent that the food he was purchasing was not for immediate consumption, she had marginally relaxed.

Several patrons were seated at other tables, all of which were adorned with red-and-white-checked tablecloths. Some were eating breakfast; T'Pol had immediately recognized the odor of fried eggs and meat. Others were waiting for their orders to be prepared. A man sipping from a cup of coffee at a table in the corner stared unabashedly at her and the captain.

Jon leafed through the paper money in his wallet, selected a bill, and handed it to the waitress. "Is that enough?"

The waitress's eyes grew wide as she looked at the bill. "More than enough."

"Keep it," Jon said.

"Thank you," she said. She tucked the bill in a pocket in her apron before making short work of wrapping up the pie by setting it in the center of the napkin and pulling up the napkin's corners, which she tied in a knot. "Enjoy the pie."

As she walked away, Jon said to T'Pol, "Let's go."

They left the cafe, Jon carrying the makeshift pie carrier by its knot. With his other hand, he held T'Pol's elbow. She recognized this as a human courtesy, one which was totally unnecessary, but in keeping with their roles of this era. Therefore, she did not protest, just as she had not protested when he had placed his hand on her arm as they had walked away from the train.

About a block from the church there was an alley between the buildings. They were almost across the alley opening when the click of a revolver's hammer came from behind them. T'Pol felt Jon's grip on her elbow fall away as they both swung around to confront whatever threat was lurking in the alleyway.

Two men, both holding guns, were advancing on them.

As Jon's free hand went toward the gun in his belt, T'Pol grabbed his arm. "I wouldn't advise that, Captain. I believe the phrase is, 'They have the drop on us.'"


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: Still managed to get this chapter posted, despite being smacked by Winter Storm Q yesterday!

CHAPTER 18

Jon was at a disadvantage. The two men in the alleyway already had their pistols drawn when he and T'Pol had turned to face them. He might have had a slim chance of taking one down if he had gotten his Colt Peacemaker out of his belt, but both men would have had a clean shot in the meantime. To his chagrin, he realized that either he or his first officer might be dead now if she hadn't stopped him from reaching for his gun.

He recognized their assailants. The taller of the two had been outside the livery stable; the other had been in the cafe, watching them as they had purchased the pie.

"Get your hands up," said the man from the livery stable. "Just give us your money and any valuables, and we'll be on our way. Won't we, Jake?"

Jake, the man from the cafe, sneered, but he seemed more nervous than menacing. "That's right," he said, his voice cracking. "Get 'em up." He followed this statement with a shaky laugh.

Jon didn't see how he and T'Pol could do anything but comply. He was still holding the pie-laden napkin by its knot; it swung in his grasp as he raised his hands. Next to him, T'Pol didn't raise her hands, but the robbers didn't seem concerned. She probably didn't appear to be much of a threat. Their mistake, he thought, just so long as she didn't do anything reckless.

"I, ah, have to reach inside my coat to get my wallet," Jon said, stalling for time to think of a way to get out of this mess.

He expected the livery stable man, who seemed to be the one in charge, to tell him to take out his wallet, but the robber hesitated. He got the impression they hadn't done this very often. Instead, the man waved his gun at T'Pol.

"Come over here," he told her.

Her hands clutched around her reticule, T'Pol stepped over to him, but not before she gave Jon a significant sidelong look. Jon's stomach tightened. Now he really hoped she didn't do something reckless.

"Give me your money," the robber ordered her.

"I do not have any," she said.

He pointed at the reticule in her hands. "Anything valuable in there?"

"No. Merely a handkerchief, and paper and pencils."

"You a teacher or something? You're dressed awful fancy for a teacher. I bet you're hiding something in there." He took his eyes off her long enough to address his companion. "Get his money, Jake."

As Jake walked toward Jon, the other robber turned his gaze back to T'Pol. If she was going to make a move, Jon thought, she should do it now, when the robbers' attention was divided.

"Let's see what you got in there," the man said to her.

Jon's view of T'Pol was blocked as Jake, holding his pistol aimed at Jon's chest, came toward him. Jake reached to check the pockets of Jon's frock coat.

A sharp report made Jake whirl to look behind him. Jon shifted his grip on his parcel, grabbing the pie inside by its heavy metal pan and slamming it down on Jake's head. The man buckled, falling without a sound to the ground. Jon immediately dismissed him as a source of more trouble and turned to help T'Pol.

T'Pol didn't need any help. She was holding one of her handkerchiefs, a wisp of smoke rising from it. The robber no longer had his gun. Instead he was clasping one of his hands with the other, a look of incredulity on his face as a drop of blood from between his fingers splattered on the ground.

"You shot me!" the robber cried.

"Yes," T'Pol replied calmly, "and I will do so again if you don't leave now. There is one more bullet in my gun." She lifted her hand higher, the barrel of the small derringer poking out from under the handkerchief aimed directly between his eyes. "I am a very good shot, especially at close range."

By now Jon had his own gun in his hand. The wounded robber cast one furtive glance at him and took off at a shambling run down the alleyway, leaving his weapon and his accomplice where they had fallen.

Jon nudged the robber at his feet with the toe of his boot. The man didn't stir. By the rise and fall of his chest, Jon could tell that he was breathing. That was good, because the last thing they needed was to be tied up sorting out a killing, although he was certain he could claim self-defense.

A small crowd was gathering in the street at the opening of the alley.

"Nothing to see here, folks," Jon said, sticking his gun back in his belt. To his surprise, he still held the pie in his other hand. To T'Pol, who was tucking the derringer back in her reticule, he said, "Let's get back to the train."

The crowd parted as Jon and T'Pol stepped out into the street. There were excited murmurings about what might have taken place. To judge by some of the comments Jon overheard, the incapacitated robber was something of a troublemaker. That may have explained why no one challenged his and T'Pol's departure from the scene.

They were about a block away, walking at a fast pace, when a high-pitched voice came from behind them. "Hey, mister! Was that a hold-up?"

Jon looked over his shoulder to see a tow-headed boy trotting along behind him and T'Pol. The boy, about ten years old, was dressed in a faded shirt, a well-worn coat, too-large pants held up by suspenders, and scuffed shoes. Jon stopped to smile down at the youngster. "It was supposed to be, but fortunately for us, it didn't work out that way."

"Captain," T'Pol said. "We need to be going."

Jon gave her a quick glance. "I know."

"She called you 'Captain,'" the boy said. "Are you in the cavalry?"

"No," Jon said. He started walking, T'Pol keeping pace with him.

The boy continued to dog their heels in more ways than one.

"What's that you're carrying?" he asked. "I saw you hit him with it." Before Jon could answer, he continued, "You must be from the train, because I don't know you, and I know just about everybody in Tulare. I saw the fancy train car. You must be important, because only important people ride in a car like that. Or rich people. Are you rich? Are you going to San Francisco? I've never been to San Francisco."

T'Pol, a severe expression on her face, halted and turned to face the boy. "You ask a lot of questions."

The boy stared up at her, not the least bit intimidated. "How will I learn anything if I don't ask questions?"

Jon had to bite his lip to keep from laughing as T'Pol raised an eyebrow.

"That is an admirable attitude," T'Pol told the boy. "Let me ask you a question of my own: Do you not know that it is unwise to talk to strangers?"

The boy's face scrunched up as he thought for a moment. "Sure, I guess." He gestured toward the alleyway. "But I don't like that man. He's mean. If he was trying to take your money or hurt you, you have to be a good person."

"Makes sense to me," Jon said to T'Pol.

"His reasoning is based on an assumption, not logic," T'Pol told him.

"And we're standing here arguing about it," Jon riposted. "Shouldn't we be going?"

"Yes." T'Pol took a deep breath. "The altercation has delayed us sufficiently that returning to the train is the most prudent course of action."

"Hey, mister?"

Jon looked at the boy. Despite their hurry, he couldn't help but be amused. "What is it, son?" he asked kindly.

"How come she talks funny?"

Jon leaned down, lowered his voice, and said, "She's not from around these parts."

The boy nodded as if that made perfect sense. Jon took T'Pol's elbow and led her away before the youngster could think of any more questions to ask them.

* * *

Jon and T'Pol were the first to return to the Pullman. They were seated in the parlor area when, just as the train whistle sounded, Trip and Travis walked in.

The pie was on the table. It was more or less intact, but the pan in which it had been baked had been dented on the bottom by its impact on the would-be robber's head, causing the center of the pie to be considerably higher than the fluted edge of the crust. Pieces of the latticework top had broken off, and there were two distinct holes the size of Jon's thumbs in the filling.

Trip gazed at the battered pie as he took a seat at the table. "Looks like we weren't the only ones to buy something, but I think you ought to ask for your money back."

"It wasn't that way when we bought it," Jon told him.

"The pie was instrumental in thwarting two men who attempted to rob us," T'Pol said.

"Somebody tried to rob you?" Travis asked.

"'Tried' is the key word," Jon reassured him with a smile. After giving a quick run-down of the incident, he finished by saying, "In hindsight, I should have been more careful, first outside the train before we went our separate ways, then in the cafe. I think those men saw that I was carrying a substantial amount of money."

"And it's in paper, not coinage," Travis said. "That probably stood out. A lot of people at the end of this century didn't trust paper money. They preferred gold or silver coins. But those get heavy if you have to carry very many, so wealthy people tended to use paper currency."

"It's a good thing you had that derringer," Trip said to T'Pol. "Shot the gun right out of his hand, huh? We're going to have to start calling you Dead Eye."

T'Pol fixed him with a bland stare. "While I understand your reference is to marksmanship, it does not apply in this instance. I could hardly have missed a target at such close range."

"Yeah," Trip said, "but those small pistols were notoriously inaccurate."

"Be that as it may," T'Pol said, "I believe neither the captain nor I felt any ill effects from the Tlibrednav transport system."

"Neither did we," Trip said. "Daniels' shield must be working, even when we're separated."

"We got all the way to the outskirts of Tulare before we had to turn back," Travis put in. "That's more than two kilometers."

T'Pol nodded. "The shield's effectiveness may not be contingent upon our proximity to the train, but there is no way to know for certain without further data."

"We'll know for sure in San Francisco," Jon said. "We're going to have to leave the train there."

As the train began to move, the car jerked, causing the pie to slide perilously close to the edge of the table. Jon grabbed it and put it back in the center of the table. "No way am I letting anything else happen to this pie before I get to eat some of it."

Now that the train was underway and there was little danger of anyone walking in unannounced, T'Pol removed her hat. As she was taking off her gloves, she said to Trip, "You made a purchase?"

Trip reached inside his vest pocket. "Look what I found when Travis and I stopped in a general store on our way back to the train." He pulled out a harmonica. "It's a Hohner." He lifted it to his lips, cupped his hand over the back, and blew a few notes.

"I believe that is called a harmonica," T'Pol said, adding, "and I hope that we will not have to listen to that all the way to San Francisco."

"Hohner is the maker. They were famous for their harmonicas," Trip told her. "And I'm hurt that you don't think more highly of my playing." He returned the harmonica to his vest pocket. "But at least it's a great souvenir."

Jon leaned forward, getting his officers' attention. "We shouldn't take anything back with us that we didn't bring with us. Not if we can help it."

His officers looked at him with understanding expressions, although Trip's was tinged with disappointment.

"We cannot take the chance that by removing an article from this era we will cause a change in the time line," T'Pol said. "I had already reached that conclusion."

"Even a harmonica?" Trip asked.

"Especially a harmonica," T'Pol insisted.

"What about your notes?" Travis asked her. "For the stories you're supposed to write?"

"I will destroy them in this time period before we return to ours," she said. "I had considered taking the notes with me, but that was when I was under the influence of the Tlibrednav transport system. I was not thinking clearly at that time."

"Sorry, Trip," Jon said with an apologetic smile. "The harmonica stays."


	19. Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

Travis went to the dining car to get what would be their final meal on board the train. He was glad to find Isaac there. The head porter had been busy with other passengers most of the day, as the train had made many stops after Tulare, and Travis didn't know if he would get another chance to tell the man goodbye.

Isaac greeted him with a friendly smile. "You ready for San Francisco?"

"I think so," Travis told him. He watched Isaac bustle around the counter in the kitchen area where the cook was placing dinners on trays. "I want to thank you for all you've done. You've made this journey a lot easier for us."

"I appreciate that, Travis," Isaac said as he went to a storage bin to get cutlery. "I could say the same about all of you. We might not have made it if Captain Archer hadn't gotten the better of the conductor during that sorry excuse for a train robbery." He looked up from placing knives, forks, and spoons on the trays. "I expect you'll be finding a ship and be back at sea soon."

Travis had to look away. There was nothing he wanted more than to get back to his ship. He couldn't say that, of course. There was so much he wanted to tell Isaac, but he couldn't – not without taking a chance that the time line could be screwed up.

Isaac seemed to sense that Travis was holding back. "I won't tell anyone about Miss Paul, if that's what you're worried about," he said in a whisper. "I swear on my mother's grave."

Isaac was a good person. Just being around the man with his quiet dignity was an inspiration. He reminded Travis of his father. He was going to miss him when they left the train.

"We're blood brothers," Travis whispered back. "I know you'd never do anything to hurt any of us." In a louder voice, he said, "Oh! I almost forgot." He reached into one of his pockets to pull out Trip's harmonica. "This is for you."

Isaac looked at the harmonica, then at Travis.

By way of explanation, Travis said, "Miss Paul doesn't like Mister Tucker's playing. He's pretty good, but she says it hurts her ears. He said he'd be tempted to play it if he still had it, so he asked me to give it to you."

"That's mighty nice of him." Isaac took the harmonica when Travis held it out to him. "I don't know how to play it, so I'll give it to Mae when I get home."

"Is Mae your wife?" Travis asked.

"My daughter," Isaac told him. "She's a bright girl. Likes music. She'll figure it out."

"You never told me your last name."

"Jemison. That's with an 'e,' not an 'a.' And yours?"

"Mayweather," Travis told him.

"Well then, if I don't see you before you leave, fair sailing to you, Travis Mayweather," Isaac said.

That was an appropriate sentiment, Travis thought, considering he hoped with all his heart to be sailing among the stars very soon. When Isaac stuck out his hand, Travis took it, giving the man a firm handshake.

As he made his way back through the dining car carrying the evening's meal, Travis thought Isaac must be proud of his last name to emphasize the spelling of it. Still, there was something about the name, and his daughter's, that was tickling at his memory.

It wasn't until he stepped over the coupling to the Pullman's platform that it hit him. Mae Jemison had been an astronaut during the old NASA shuttle missions. In fact, she had been the first black woman in space. Travis turned to look back at the dining car. Isaac's daughter couldn't be _that _Mae Jemison, he realized, but he might have met one of her ancestors.

* * *

Jon stared at the city on the other side of the bay. "San Francisco doesn't look quite like I remember it."

He and his officers were on a pier in Oakland, waiting to board a ferry. It was either that, or arrange for ground transportation all the way around the bay.

"I assumed the train would go right into San Francisco," Trip said. He took a moment to blow on his hands to warm them. "I knew the Golden Gate Bridge wasn't built until the first part of the next century. Apparently the one here wasn't, either."

"You are referring to the Oakland Bay Bridge," T'Pol said.

"Yeah." Trip stuck his hands in his coat pockets. "Still the same weather, though."

The temperature was dropping with the sun. Although the bay and the hilly peninsula where San Francisco was located were between them and the Pacific, there was still the smell of the ocean in the chilly breeze that had sprung up.

Jon studied his officers as they gazed at the view. T'Pol's color was good and she seemed focused. Trip was energetic, but not hyperactively so, and he hadn't once mentioned being hungry that day. Travis was alert but calm. He himself was feeling a bit tired, but it was a result of inactivity most of the day on the train, not the bone-deep exhaustion that had made it impossible to do anything but sleep. So far, so good, he thought. As long as Daniels' shield held, their chances of getting home were improving.

"When we get over there," Travis said with a nod toward San Francisco, "where do we go?"

Jon drew his officers farther away from the other people milling about on the pier. "I've been wondering the same thing myself. We need to find some place to stay until Daniels contacts us again."

Trip was still eyeing the view. "There's no telling how long it will take for Daniels to have everything ready to send us back."

Jon nodded. "We better keep up our cover story. The first thing we should do is find lodging near shipyards, since we're supposed to be looking for a ship." He turned back toward the bay. "There are shipbuilding facilities over there, although I'm tempted to go see the naval predecessor of Starfleet's ground-based shipyard at Mare Island."

"That is farther north, some distance from the city limits in this time period," T'Pol pointed out. With a lift of her eyebrows, she added, "Daniels did specify San Francisco, not a place near it."

A paddle-wheel steamboat with three decks had docked at the pier. As soon as the departing passengers got off, Jon and his officers could board for the trip across the bay.

Travis, maintaining his role as servant, picked up two of their four suitcases. "Captain," he said, looking at the people stepping onto the pier from the ferry, "I think that man is looking for us."

Jon followed his helmsman's gaze. A neatly dressed, middle-aged man was walking toward them with a purposeful stride.

"Captain Archer?" the man inquired as he approached.

"Yes," Jon said cautiously. "How did you-?"

"My name is William. Mister Flagler has made arrangements for your stay in San Francisco," the man said with a deferential air. "He sent a telegram asking me to meet your group of three men, one of whom is a Negro servant, and one woman." He glanced toward people starting to board the ferry. "Your group is the only one that matches that description."

Jon was beginning to realize that they might not have as much freedom to pursue their real agenda in San Francisco as he would have liked – not if Flagler had arranged for someone to assist them. He had no doubt that William would be reporting back to the robber baron on a regular basis.

"Mister Flager thinks of everything," Jon said dryly.

"Yes, he does," the man replied. "If you would follow me, please? I have a private room for you on the ferry, and transportation to the Palace Hotel once you're across the bay."

* * *

The ferry crossing didn't take long. There was hardly enough time to settle into the private room on the middle deck before they disembarked at the ferry depot at the foot of Market Street.

As far as Trip could tell, they all seemed to be feeling well. He mentally crossed his fingers, hoping Daniels' shield would be able to keep up with their movements.

A two-horse, closed carriage was waiting to take them from the ferry. Travis and William loaded their luggage into a compartment on the back of the carriage. After helping T'Pol inside, Jon climbed in, followed by Trip and Travis. William shut the door and climbed up next to the driver on the front, and they were off, the horses' hooves clip-clopping on the pavement as they left the dock area at a sedate pace.

"Interesting mode of transportation," Jon said.

Trip ran a hand over the upholstered seat. "Nice and comfy, but a cable car would have been more fun." He gestured out the window to the tracks in the street.

The carriage traveled less than a mile up Market Street before turning onto Montgomery Street and stopping outside the Palace Hotel. The imposing multistory, stone-and-brick structure took up a whole city block. Trip expected they would get out of the carriage and go in, but a pair of tall, glass-paneled doors opened, allowing their carriage to pass inside. They entered a courtyard with a turnaround big enough for a dozen carriages. High archways lined a marble-tiled promenade that circled the carriage area. Everywhere Trip looked, there were statues, fountains, and tropical plants.

This grand court area was overlooked by six stories of white-columned, balconied hallways. At the very top of the building was an expansive paned skylight. As it was almost dark outside, electric lamps provided illumination that spilled down from the balconies to glint off polished surfaces in every direction.

"Wow," Trip murmured in awe. "This place sure lives up to its name. Traveling through the Wild West, I kind of forgot we were in the Gilded Age."

William hopped down from the driver's seat to open the carriage door and help them out. "There's no need for you to check in at the reception desk. Everything's been taken care of." To Travis, he said, "The luggage will be brought to the rooms."

William led them under one of the archways, through a reception area bigger than one of _Enterprise'_s cargo bays, to a large door. A uniformed attendant slid the door into the wall, revealing a small room.

William allowed the others to step in before him. "The fourth floor, if you please," he told the attendant.

Trip admired the redwood paneling as the attendant closed the door and the elevator began to rise. He was even more impressed with the hydraulics. These rising rooms, as they were first called, had quickly gained wide acceptance once Elisha Otis had figured out a brake system, making them safe if the cables broke.

William, after handing a coin to the attendant, led the way when they reached the fourth floor. "Your suite of rooms is down this hall."

Trip took a moment to peer over the balcony directly in front of the elevator. Urns of flowering plants lined the balcony, their vines trailing over the railing. As he inhaled the exotic aroma, he once again he was struck by the grandeur of the place.

William showed them into a spacious and, by the era's standards, lavishly furnished parlor. He turned to face them. "This is a common sitting room for your party. Bedrooms suites are off to either side." He paused, a slight blush staining his cheeks. It was the first sign of anything but professional efficiency on his part as he avoided meeting their eyes. "Ah, might I suggest Miss Paul occupy the single room?" He gestured toward one of the connecting doors.

The delivery of their luggage by two uniformed hotel porters broke the awkward moment. William directed them to leave the suitcases in the common sitting room before tipping them and ushering them out. He turned in the doorway to address Jon. "I will leave you now, but I will return in the morning with a list of prospective ships that are suited to your purpose and are for sale. Have a good evening."

"Great!" Trip said after the door shut behind William. "Now all we have to do is wait on Daniels while William shows us all the ships that are for sale in San Francisco."


	20. Chapter 20

(A/N: Thanks to all of you who have been keeping up with this story. I appreciate the comments you've made.)

CHAPTER 20

The one redeeming feature of the ornate, overly furnished sitting room was, in T'Pol's estimation, a large bay window. She stripped off her gloves as she walked over to it to look out at the street below. Pedestrians as well as vehicular traffic, including the city's famed cable cars, could be seen in the glow of street lamps. It was a more pleasing view than the interior of the room which, extravagant even by the human standards of the era, affronted her Vulcan sensibilities. The wallpaper, with its busy pattern of vining leaves and flowers, was particularly distasteful.

Behind her, she could hear Jon and Trip discussing the latest impediment to returning to their proper place and time.

"We're going to have to do something about William," Trip said. "If he's with us all the time, we're actually going to have to act like we want to buy a ship."

"We can't tell him we don't want his help," Jon said. "That could upset Henry Flagler."

"What's Flagler gonna do?" Trip asked. "He's all the way back in New York."

"Don't forget he probably has business associates here who have a lot of pull," Travis put in. "He could have us thrown in jail if he wanted."

"For what?" Trip asked skeptically. He sank down in an overstuffed chair and put his feet up on an equally stuffed footstool. "That we aren't finding a ship fast enough to suit him?"

"If we don't keep up the pretense of wanting to buy a ship," Travis said, "he might believe we're double-crossing him." He prudently didn't mention that in fact, they were indeed double-crossing him. At Trip's dubious look, Travis added, "They weren't called robber barons for nothing. They were ruthless. They expected everyone else to be ruthless too. He might think we're trying to cheat him. I'm not surprised he arranged for somebody to keep an eye on us."

Jon had been pacing around the room. He came to stand by T'Pol at the window. "You haven't said anything."

"It will be difficult to maintain our charade if William is in constant attendance," she said. "However, I do not believe it would be unreasonable to ask that he allow us a day or two to recuperate from our cross-country journey." She held up her bandaged hand. "I did, after all, injure myself. There is a possibility that I might become...faint...if I try to do too much too soon."

Jon must have thought she was offering to prevaricate. He may have found her comment humorous, for she could detect a twinkle in his eyes, although it may only have been reflected light from the chandelier.

"A possibility?" he asked.

"A small possibility," she conceded, "but a possibility, nonetheless. As such, it would be the truth."

From across the room, Trip said, "That's fine for you, but William will expect the rest of us to be out doing what he thinks we came here to do."

T'Pol walked over to a couch near Trip and sat down. The seat cushion was entirely too soft, another sign of the decadence of the era. "Regardless of what we think William expects of us, we should inform him that we would like to have a day to ourselves."

"If he agrees, that would buy us a little time," Jon noted as he joined her on the couch. "If he doesn't, you can stay here with Travis." He looked at Trip. "You and I can go with William if he wants to show us some ships."

Trip nodded. "I guess I can keep pretending for another day or two. I know enough about ships of this time to get by, or at least not give my ignorance away."

Jon let out a frustrated grunt. "I wish Daniels would show up. You'd think he would have contacted us by now."

"Highly unlikely," T'Pol said. "We have not been alone since our arrival in San Francisco until now. It would be too risky."

A knock at the door brought the conversation to a halt.

T'Pol had no idea who could be disturbing them at this hour. It was late in the day. They had been shown to their rooms, their luggage had been delivered, and William had left. She touched the ribbons of her hat, which she had not yet removed; her ears were adequately covered.

Jon stood up and started for the door, but Travis cut him off.

"Appearances, sir," the helmsman said. "You better let me."

Jon gave him a curt nod but remained standing.

Travis took a moment to smooth down his clothing, the better to present the picture of a domestic servant, before opening the door. From her seat on the couch, T'Pol could not see who was in the hallway when Travis opened the door, but the tenseness left his posture. He was not perceiving a threat.

"Daniels!" Jon said as their visitor entered.

"We were just talkin' about you," Trip added.

"I know," the temporal agent said.

The captain gritted his teeth. T'Pol sympathized, but she did not allow any outward sign of her own exasperation. Daniels, for all his talk of not affecting time lines, liked to engage in the past. She observed that he had dressed for the era in an outfit similar to those of the captain and Trip, but his clothing was in better condition. His frock coat was clean and neatly pressed, and his shoes had not a speck of dust on them. Of course, he had not just completed a cross-country trip by means of fossil-fueled transportation.

She straightened her travel-stained skirt. If they were here for a significant amount of time, she would have to see if a laundry service was among the Palace Hotel's amenities.

Trip got to his feet to face their visitor. "You must have good news, because you seem more smug than usual."

"I do, and I'm not," Daniels told him as he took off his top hat.

Trip shot Jon a look that T'Pol easily interpreted as meaning Daniels was, as the chief engineer would put it, "full of it."

"First, though, the shielding is working?" Daniels asked.

"Yes," Jon said.

"You're sure you're not feeling any ill effects?"

"We're sure," Jon said. He took a step toward Daniels. "Have you got everything set to send us back?"

Daniels smiled widely. "Yes, I do. I've finally figured out the Tlibrednav time transport system, but we're still going to use the Earth vortex here in conjunction with it. It's safer, for one thing."

"In what way?" T'Pol asked.

Daniels looked at her. "I know what the vortex here can do, and how to harness its energy. But if we relied totally on the Tlibrednav system, you might end up somewhere else."

"In our history?" Jon asked.

"Maybe." Daniels squinted as he hedged. "Or maybe Vulcan's past, since Subcommander T'Pol is with you."

T'Pol rose to her feet from the couch. "That would not be advisable. Humans would not survive in some of Vulcan's more violent periods."

"Hey!" Trip said.

"Be that as it may," Daniels said over Trip's affronted outburst, "you'll need to be at one of the highest points in San Francisco late tomorrow evening."

"What about here?" Jon asked. "We could go up to the roof. This is one of the taller structures in this part of San Francisco."

Daniels shook his head. "No. To be absolutely certain that you four are the ones who are transported, you need to be away from other people. The hotel's top floor conservatory is quite popular with guests. I should know. I took a stroll around it before I came to your rooms." He glanced toward the bay window. "I suggest the Twin Peaks in the center of the peninsula."

"That area," T'Pol stated, "is a nature preserve in our time because of its microclimates."

"It's not developed in this time, either," Daniels said. "You'll be away from other people, and you'll be on one of the highest spots in the area. After dinner tomorrow, take Market Street west. You'll see the peaks in the distance. You shouldn't have any trouble getting to them."

"Why tomorrow night?" Jon asked. "Can't we go now?"

Daniels hesitated, a calculating look on his face. T'Pol had the impression he was trying to determine how much information he could give them.

"Vortices are not always constant," he said after a moment. "In order to transport all of you through both time and space, it will take considerable energy. Tomorrow evening is when this vortex's energy will be at its maximum."

Daniels strode toward the door.

"What do we do in the meantime?" Trip asked. "We've got a whole day to kill."

Daniels turned back to face them as he put on his top hat. "I suggest you enjoy yourselves." He singled out Trip with a stern glance. "But don't get into trouble."

Trip turned to the others after Daniels left. "Why was he looking at me when he said that?"

* * *

There were three suites off the common sitting room, each with its own parlor, bedroom, and bathroom. When Jon saw the tub in his suite, he decided he wanted a bath before bed. He would leave shaving until morning. The tub was made of enameled cast iron with four clawed feet, but the best feature was that there was a faucet with handles for both hot and cold running water. He hadn't realized how much he had missed having water available at the turn of a tap until he had filled the tub and sat down in the soothing, warm water. If he wasn't careful, he would fall asleep while he soaked.

They still had some problems to deal with before they could get home, the biggest one of which was what to do about William. But for the moment, he was going to put all that aside. The problems would still be there in the morning, but he would feel better about dealing with them after scrubbing himself clean and getting a good night's rest in a real bed.

* * *

T'Pol closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. She could detect no offensive odors, although the sachet packets in the dresser drawers of her bedroom were somewhat cloying. Lodging at the hotel was a welcome respite from their journey, as she anticipated a night's sleep uninterrupted by snoring from her traveling companions.

She took off her hat before entering the bathroom. In addition to the expected fixtures, there was a more than adequate supply of towels and soap. She decided she would remove her bandage, then bathe and rewrap her hand. After that, a meditation session would enhance her ability to achieve a restorative sleep.

* * *

"Wow!" Travis said. "Do you know they have at least three restaurants in this hotel? And a bar? And a billiards room? They probably need all that, since they've got more than seven hundred guest rooms."

Travis was lounging on one of the two beds in the suite he was sharing with Trip while he waited for his turn to clean up. Trip had left the bathroom door slightly ajar, the better to converse with the helmsman, who was looking at a booklet he had found on the desk in the parlor of their suite.

"Restaurants, huh?" Trip said. "What about room service?"

"I don't know," Travis replied. He read some information in the booklet that made him get off the bed to look around the room. Not finding what he was searching for, he checked in the parlor. When he returned, he said, "There's an electric call button for service. But they must send someone up to see what we want."

"Don't they have telephones yet?" Trip asked.

"I didn't see one," Travis told him. He flipped through the pages in the booklet, looking at photographs of the hotel. "There's a men's grill and a women's grill."

Trip, his hair damp and a towel wrapped around his midsection, walked out of the bathroom. "I don't think T'Pol's gonna want to eat by herself."

"There's a bigger dining area called the American Room," Travis said. "We could eat there in the morning."

"Sounds good," Trip said, "but we'll have to run it by the captain."

"You think the food on the train was good," Travis said with a big smile as he headed for the bathroom. "I bet the food here is even better. And best of all, I won't have to go to a dining car to get it."


	21. Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

Trip, dressed in the most presentable of his nineteenth-century clothing, walked out of his suite the next morning to find T'Pol seated at the large dining table in the common room. She was clad in a powder blue outfit, a matching hat within easy reach. He wondered if, when they got back to _Enterprise_, she would be glad not to have to keep her ears under wraps all the time.

"Working on your stories, huh?" he asked upon seeing the array of papers spread out on the table. "I don't know why you're worried about that. We should be back where we belong by the end of the day."

"I am not worried." T'Pol continued to sort the pages. "However, if you look out the window, you will see a newspaper office across the street."

Trip went to the bay window. He rubbed the last of the sleep from his eyes as he looked outside. Sure enough, "San Francisco Chronicle" was emblazoned on the front of one of the larger buildings facing Market Street. As if that wasn't enough of a clue, ragamuffin youngsters carrying stacks of folded papers were coming out of the building and heading off in all directions.

He turned back to her with a frown. "You're not seriously thinking about getting your stories published, are you?"

"No," she said, "but it would be prudent for me to continue my journalistic pretense. At the very least, should William require it, I must be ready to show proof of Mister Flagler's trust in me so as to avert suspicion that we are not what we appear." She fixed him with a level gaze. "Simply because our goal is in sight does not mean we should become complacent."

Sounds of movement came from the captain's suite, followed a few moments later by his appearance in the shared sitting room. Jon had barely greeted them when there was a knock at the main door. T'Pol reached for her hat as Jon and Trip looked at each other.

"Surely that's not William already," Jon said, taking out his watch to check the time. "It's not even eight o'clock."

"I took the liberty of ordering food to be brought to us in order to limit our actions in public," T'Pol said as she positioned the hat in place, "and thereby decrease the chance of contaminating the time line."

Nonplussed, Jon started, "How did you-?"

"I utilized the electric call button," she told him. "In response, a messenger was sent from the office to see what was needed. Labor intensive, but given the technology, well executed. I gave a written list of what we desired for breakfast to the messenger."

The knock was repeated.

"All right, so breakfast is here," Jon said. "Where's Travis?"

"Still sleepin'," Trip said. "I'll get it."

Trip wasn't sure what he was expecting when he opened the door, but it wasn't the fleet of serving carts, accompanied by a squadron of waiters, that he saw lined up in the hallway. "Come on in," he said with an expansive sweep of his hand.

Five tablecloth-shrouded carts were trundled in. Four were laden with individual breakfast settings. The fifth bore a silver coffee service and a crystal pitcher of water.

The lead waiter approached T'Pol with his cart. "Your breakfast, ma'am." He transferred a plate, napkin, and cutlery to the table where she sat. He lifted the lid from her plate. "I hope everything is to your liking."

She looked at the French toast on her plate. "My instructions were followed?"

"Yes, ma'am. No egg in the batter, and butter, not lard, was used in the pan to cook it," the waiter told her. "The Palace Hotel is happy to prepare food to its guests' requests."

Trip could smell the French toast from where he was standing by the door. His own stomach rumbled in anticipation. A hearty breakfast was exactly what he needed to face what he hoped was their last day in the past.

The lead waiter signaled for the other breakfasts to be brought over. While those items were being transferred to the table, he poured a glass of water for T'Pol.

The other waiters left, pushing their now empty carts before them, but the lead waiter stood expectantly by the table. T'Pol might not understand the concept of tipping, Trip realized, and even if she did, he knew she had no money. He reached into his vest pocket for the currency Jon had given him the day before. He peeled off a five dollar bill. "Is that enough?" he asked.

"More than enough, sir," the man said with a smile. He gave Trip a slight bow and left, shutting the door to the hall behind him.

Jon said to Trip, "I didn't realize you were such a big tipper."

Trip returned the wad of paper currency to his vest pocket. "That probably was too much. I don't have a good grasp of what things are worth monetarily in this century. Then again, they did get Miss Finicky's order right." At T'Pol's sharp glance, he added, "That's worth something. You aren't the easiest person to please."

Trip started to sit down, but changed his mind. "We ought to wake up the sleepyhead. It would be a shame to let him miss the first meal he didn't have to go get for us."

* * *

Jon, Trip, and Travis all had French toast, sausage, and hashed browned potatoes for breakfast. T'Pol, in addition to her specially prepared French toast, had a bowl of oatmeal.

"Kind of heavy on the starches," Trip noted.

"I would have preferred a slice of melon," she told him, "but even the Palace Hotel would be hard pressed to find fresh produce in winter in this time period. This will suffice."

Jon set aside his napkin, smiling at the familiar almost-bickering of his two top officers. He was glad that everyone, himself included, was in good spirits. He was thinking that it had been a pleasant change to have a meal without the floor moving under him when there was a knock at the door. "That's got to be William," he said. He looked at Travis. "If you would, please."

Travis hastily swallowed the last bite of his breakfast, got to his feet, and slid his chair back in place at the table. He took his breakfast service to one of the side tables before going to the door. He was preserving his image of being a servant, one who wouldn't dream of eating at the same table as his employer. Jon decided he was going to have to give the young officer a commendation. Without Travis' knowledge of the era, not to mention his quick thinking in several situations, they might not have made it this far.

They still had a way to go before they got home, however, including relying on whatever process it was that Daniels was preparing. What Jon would really like to do, instead of ship shopping, was scope out the route they needed to get to the Twin Peaks that evening. Daniels had said it wouldn't be difficult. From past experience, however, he knew that what he considered not difficult could be light-years off from Daniels' idea of it.

As Jon had surmised, it was Flagler's man that Travis let into the room.

William took off his top hat as he approached the table. "Good morning, Captain Archer. I trust you rested well."

"Yes, I did." Jon indicated a seat at the table. "Join us, won't you? Would you like a cup of coffee?"

William took the seat that, unbeknownst to him, Travis had vacated moments before. "No, thank you." He turned to the others at the table. "Mister Tucker, Miss Paul."

Jon cleared his throat. "I'm eager to get started looking for a ship." He paused to take a sip of coffee as he marshaled his arguments against the very thing he had just proposed.

William pulled a paper from his coat pocket. "Mister Flagler has arranged for me to take care of the financing involved in the purchase of a ship. There are several that-"

"Not so fast." Jon cut him off with a shake of his head as he put down his cup. "I think I'd like a day off."

William looked at him with a puzzled frown. "Sir?"

"It's been a long journey from New York," Jon said. "I would like a day to relax and see the sights before I get on with business."

"I don't understand," William said. "Mister Flagler instructed me to assist you in finding a suitable ship as quickly as possible." His frown deepened. "I had assumed that you've been here before."

William was implying that Jon, as a captain who had sailed the Pacific Ocean at least once, was already familiar with the city. He actually knew San Francisco quite well, just not in this century. He glanced at the others at the table. Trip was looking at him with wide eyes; no help there. T'Pol was calmly adjusting the bandage on her hand. He looked back at William. "Mister Tucker has not been to the city before, and I had hoped to show him some of my favorite places. In addition, Miss Paul was injured on the train – nothing serious, luckily."

"Oh!" William's gaze fell on her bandaged hand. "Would you like me to call for a physician?"

"That will not be necessary," T'Pol told him. "I would like to rest today, however."

"I understand," William said condescendingly. "Women like to think they can stand equally alongside men, but concessions must be made for their delicate nature."

The Gilded Age's chauvinistic attitude rears its head again, Jon thought, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling as T'Pol's expression turned absolutely glacial. She reminded him of Soval at his most disapproving. It was nice to see someone other than himself on the receiving end of that icy stare for once.

William seemed oblivious to the reaction he had provoked. Either that, or he didn't care. "That brings me to the other item on our agenda for today. I'm to escort Miss Paul to various news publishers."

"My stories are not ready," she informed him. She picked up the stack of papers on the table next to her plate. "I need to make revisions before I submit them for publication." At William's patronizing expression, she handed the papers to him. "It should only take a day or two."

William glanced through the pages. "Quite detailed, Miss Paul, although a bit dry. I'm impressed. There should be no problem finding a suitable publisher." His gaze shifted to Jon. "Perhaps Miss Paul should remain here today to finish her work, while I show you what ships are available. I'm sure there will be time enough this evening for you to show Mister Tucker the, er, the sights."

Jon considered that it might be easier to make the rounds of the docks than to try to beg off. William seemed determined to follow his employer's directive with no delay. A refusal might cause him to become suspicious.

Across the table from him, Trip caught his eye and nodded. That decided it. If Trip believed he could keep up the pretense of knowing about ships of this era, they could pull it off.

A short time later, Jon and Trip were on their way with William to the docks, leaving T'Pol and Travis behind at the hotel.

"Those things are everywhere, aren't they?" Trip said as their carriage passed a cable car headed in the opposite direction.

"They certainly have made getting around the city a lot easier," William said. "They're a great boon to commerce. The ones on Market Street go from the ferry building at the docks almost all the way to the Twin Peaks."

Jon smiled to himself. Getting to the Twin Peaks would simply be a matter of boarding a cable car that ran right by the hotel's front door. They would still have to get to the top of one of the peaks, but he didn't anticipate anything more than a brisk hike.

That matter settled, Jon was able to devote his attention to being a proper nineteenth-century ship's captain. Ships were in transition in this era. Almost all were powered by steam, but most seagoing vessels still carried masts and rigging. In contrast to the iconic steamboats that plied the large inland waterways, the ocean vessels no longer had paddle wheels since the innovation of propellers had proven its worth.

They visited three ships, which took all of the morning and most of the afternoon, since William insisted on showing them each ship from stem to stern. Jon was about ready to call it quits. He didn't know how much longer he could pretend to know more than the most basic aspects about these ships.

Trip, on the other hand, seemed to be in his element. He had managed his role of a merchant ship officer quite well, especially when conversing with other steamship officers engaged in the maintenance and operation of their vessels. The love of engines transcended time, Jon supposed.

As they walked down the gangplank of the last vessel, Jon said to William, "That's enough for one day, don't you think?"

William checked his list. "There are two or three more which might be suitable."

"You know," Trip said as they stepped onto the dock, "I got the impression that at least one of these ships isn't for sale."

William fixed him with a level gaze as he replaced the paper on his pocket. "Mister Flagler will make it worth their while to sell. An added benefit is that most of the crew will want to stay on. You won't have to hire sailors."

Jon had no idea what to say to that, so he smiled in what he hoped was a convincing manner. "I did see one or two that I might find suitable. But I'd like to sleep on it. I'll give you my decision tomorrow morning."

"As you wish," William said. He led them to the waiting carriage. As he held the door open for Jon and Trip, he called up to the driver, "Back to the Palace Hotel."

As their carriage rolled off, a man emerged from behind stacked crates on the dock. He stared after the departing carriage, then hurried in the direction of a run-down tavern farther down the docks. He, too, was glad they had finished their ship inspections. He had, after all, been watching them from the very first ship they had visited.


	22. Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

Travis would have liked to have seen vintage oceangoing ships up close, but he had been ordered to stay at the hotel with T'Pol.

T'Pol had her writing to keep her occupied, but he didn't have anything to do. He became more bored as the day dragged on. At one point, T'Pol sent him to the front desk to obtain copies of that day's newspapers. It would have been just as easy to use the electric call button to summon a member of the hotel staff to bring newspapers if, as she had claimed, she had really needed them to study the journalistic style of the era. He suspected that she had concocted the errand to get rid of him for a few minutes since he had been aimlessly prowling around the sitting room.

Unfortunately, after his errand, he had plenty of time to think of what-ifs. What if they couldn't get back to their time and place? Not only would he never get to pilot a starship again, he also would never see his family again. Would he wind up being a servant for the rest of his life? What if people realized T'Pol wasn't human? He could envision her ending up in a freak side show, or worse, being torn apart by a hysterical mob.

He reined in his vivid imagination, telling himself that at least he wasn't depressed. Daniels' protective shielding was keeping the effects of the Tlibrednav time transport system at bay. If it hadn't been working, he would have been absolutely terrified to go down to the front desk by himself.

By the end of dinner that evening, Travis was practically chomping at the bit to get going. He, Jon, and Trip changed into their Starfleet uniforms, then put on Gilded Age clothing over them. T'Pol couldn't do that with her bulky formal Vulcan robe. She rolled it into a compact bundle, tying it up with the ribbons from one of her hats so that it could be carried like a package under one arm.

"Everyone got their communicators?" Jon asked.

Travis and T'Pol answered in the affirmative, and Trip, after patting the leg of his trousers to check, said, "Yes."

"Should we leave the weapons here?" T'Pol asked.

"Handguns are something people kept with them," Trip said.

"There was a lot of crime in San Francisco," Travis added. "There are some parts of it where it can be dangerous at night."

"All right," Jon said. "I suppose it would look strange if they're found in our hotel rooms after we were supposed to be going out for a night on the town. We'll take the guns, and your knife, Travis. We can leave them at the transport site. We can make it look like we put up a fight against someone trying to abduct us, and we lost." He paused to look at his officers. "Stay calm and focused. We don't want to screw this up when we're so close."

They set out, taking the elevator down to the main floor. From there, it was a short walk through the lobby and out to the street, although it took longer than Travis would have liked. He felt like all the hotel workers and guests in the huge lobby were looking at them.

A cable car was at the stop outside the Palace Hotel's main entrance. Street lamps were coming on, casting a soft glow in the gathering darkness, as passengers boarded the car.

Jon took one look at it and said, "This one is heading for the bay end of the line. We want one going the other way."

It was only a matter of minutes before another car heading in the opposite direction came rolling up the tracks on Market Street. Jon reached for his wallet as he stepped up into the car, giving the operator cash in exchange for four tickets.

T'Pol took a seat on a bench, where she was joined by Jon and Trip. Travis remained standing nearby, holding onto a pole to keep his balance as the car began to move.

Travis had ridden a cable car once before, during his stint in Starfleet training, on a whim to experience a tourist attraction that was centuries old. Riding it now when it was relatively new wasn't much different; it still moved somewhat slowly, but it was easier than walking up and down San Francisco's hills. It bumped and jolted as it rolled along.

He let his gaze roam over the other passengers. There were several neatly dressed men and women. He guessed they were mid-level office workers heading home from businesses nearer the bay. Others, their clothes stained with work grime, had to be laborers at the end of a hard day's work.

Most of passengers were looking at the buildings along Market Street or conversing with each other. But there was one man seated on an outward-facing bench who was turned sideways, looking at those seated inside. More specifically, he was staring at Captain Archer. When he felt Travis' gaze on him, he momentarily locked eyes with him before quickly looking away.

The man, Travis recalled, had boarded the cable car right after them in front of their hotel. His features were nondescript, with a mustache and beard covering the lower part of his face. The brim of a bowler hat kept the upper part of his face in shadow. He was wearing a long black coat of a style that reminded Travis of the notorious Pinkerton agents. The private security agency had caught many outlaws, but its agents had also been responsible for some horrible acts, such as the massacre of striking workers at a Carnegie Steel plant back East. Pinkerton agents could be just as ruthless as the powerful men who hired them.

Maybe, Travis thought, Henry Flagler had employed not only William to assist them, but someone else to keep a more clandestine watch on them. Or maybe it could just be his imagination getting the better of him again.

To his relief, the man hopped off the cable car at a stop near a construction site where a massive building was taking shape. Travis watched as the man walked away without so much as a backward glance.

Jon, sitting closest to where Travis was standing, asked, "Something wrong?"

"I don't know, sir," Travis said. He leaned down, lowering his voice. "That man who just got off was watching you."

Jon swiveled to see where the man had gone, but he had disappeared into the darkness outside the reach of the streetlights. Jon got to his feet to approach the cable car operator. "How far does this cable car go?"

The operator clanged the bell at a crossing before answering. "Castro Street, just past Mission Dolores." He cast a glance back at Jon's companions. "You folks know where you're going?"

"Mission Dolores," Jon answered.

The operator smiled. "Going to see Father Brennan, are you?"

Jon smiled back. "Something like that."

Travis recognized the satisfied gleam in the captain's eye when he returned to his seat. It meant he had come up with an idea.

* * *

"This is not going to work," Trip protested. He tugged at his jacket as they stood outside the chapel at Mission Dolores. He glanced apologetically at T'Pol. "No offense."

"Unfortunately," T'Pol said, "I can think of no other way to arrange for transportation from here to the Twin Peaks at a moment's notice, and I do not relish the thought of hiking three kilometers, most of it uphill, in this outfit." She fixed Trip with a withering stare. "If there was another way, I would consider of it."

Jon could feel the Vulcan disapproval radiating off her. But as she had noted, they didn't have a better idea. Although he had originally thought they could walk from the end of the cable car line, he had changed his mind. He had seen a number of unsavory looking characters on the streets – and then there was the man on the cable car who Travis had said had such an interest in them. No, walking the rest of the way in the dark was not something he wanted to do if it could be avoided.

"It's not like you're going through with it," Jon told Trip. "Just stick to the story we came up with, and you'll be fine."

Jon pushed open one of the chapel's wooden doors. He walked in far enough that the others could enter before he stopped to let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting.

They were in a vestibule. Directly ahead was the chapel proper with rows of pews on either side of a center aisle. Built in the Spanish colonial style, the walls were made of thick adobe, with heavy wooden beams supporting the ceiling. A man in a black cassock and white surplice was kneeling, his hands folded in prayer, in front of the altar at the far end of the aisle.

That had to be Father Brennan. At the large Gothic-style church next door where they had gone first after getting off the cable car, they had been told that the priest liked to say his evening prayers in the older chapel established as one of Father Junipero Serra's California missions.

The priest had heard them enter, for he made the sign of the cross, got to his feet, and turned to face them. "May I help you?" he asked, the barest hint of an Irish brogue coloring his speech.

"Father Brennan?" Jon asked.

"Yes," the man answered.

"I'm Captain Jonathan Archer." He gestured for Trip and T'Pol to come forward. "These are my friends, Charles Tucker and Miss Paul." He didn't introduce Travis, who had remained by the door. Jon suddenly felt bad about what they were going to do. They were in a church, and he was about to lie to a priest. "My friends here," he continued, "would like to get married."

The priest smiled at Trip and T'Pol. "Congratulations. Marriage is a wonderful institution, or so I've been told. But why did you come to me at this hour of the night?"

From the corner of his eye, Jon saw Trip take T'Pol's gloved hand in his. Only the slightest tightening around the edges of her mouth indicated her discomfort.

"We'd like to get married tonight," Trip said with an overly bright smile.

"Do you now? Might I ask why you are in such a hurry?"

Trip looked anxious but didn't say anything. T'Pol looked haughty, and likewise did not speak.

Jon stepped in. "It's not what you're thinking."

Father Brennan shifted his gaze from the prospective bridal couple to Jon.

"I'm a merchant sea captain," Jon said. "Mister Tucker is one of my officers. We're due to leave port for the Orient very soon, and they would like to get married before then."

"Ah. I suppose that's a better reason than most young couples who come to me at an odd hour with the same request." The priest thought for a moment. "Normally, I don't perform weddings on the spur of the moment-"

"Then don't," T'Pol interjected.

In the awkward silence that followed, Father Brennan looked at Jon. "It seems to me that the bride is not willing."

Jon drew Father Brennan a few steps away. "The problem is that Mister Tucker promised her a romantic proposal. Then our departure got moved up. They have to get married tonight since our ship leaves in the morning."

Despite Jon's advice to her to say as little as possible, T'Pol spoke up. "I do not wish to start a marriage with a broken promise."

"Commendable," Father Brennan said. He lowered his voice to a whisper to ask Jon, "She can't compromise?"

"She's very set in her ways," Jon said, "and honesty is very important to her." That, at least, was the truth, he thought.

"So he hasn't actually proposed?" the priest asked.

"He did," Jon told him, "on the cable car on the way here." He exhaled heavily, feeling the lies pile up. He forced a smile. "But there might be a way. Do you have a horse and buggy we can borrow?"


	23. Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23

A generous donation for the church helped persuade Father Brennan to allow them the use of his buggy, although Trip thought the priest had been swayed more by the romantic nature of their request than anything else. Their story was that Trip was supposed to propose to T'Pol on top of one of the Twin Peaks, with the lights of San Francisco spread out below them on one side, and the Pacific Ocean on the other. They would then return to Mission Dolores, where the priest would be waiting for them, to be married.

Trip's amusement at the situation faded soon after they left the streetlights behind. Not only did they have to move slowly to be able to see where they were going, but he also felt sorry for the horse. The poor beast plodded along, straining on the uphill sections. The road surface changed from pavement to dirt, which gave the horse better footing, but they eventually had to abandon their transportation where the track petered out to a trail a third of the way up the south peak.

"I hope the priest gets his horse and buggy back," Trip said as they climbed out of the rig.

Jon walked over to pat the horse on its neck. "I know it doesn't make it right, but I think I gave Father Brennan a big enough donation to more than pay for the horse and buggy if he doesn't get them back. Chances are he'll send someone to look for them when we don't return. The horse might even know the way back and head there itself."

Trip held a kerosene lantern, another item borrowed from Father Brennan, while Jon struck a match to light its wick. The light didn't reach far, but it was better than stumbling around in the dark, Trip supposed.

Jon was in the lead with the lantern as they started off on foot. T'Pol was next, with Trip and Travis bringing up the rear. The trail, although sandy, was packed hard underfoot, with no foliage encroaching on it. The well-traveled path had to be an indication that a lot of people came this way on a regular basis, Trip thought. He just hoped no one else was up here with them.

* * *

T'Pol's long skirt was an impediment. She had to hold it up to keep from tripping on it as she traversed the uneven terrain, making her unable to devote her entire attention to the surroundings. As it was, she nearly fell several times.

An increase in the moisture content of the air was also affecting her. Vulcan lungs hadn't evolved on a water-rich planet; she could feel congestion reducing the efficiency of her breathing passages, contributing to her slower-than-usual pace as she tried to keep up with the long strides of the captain.

The breeze was gaining strength the closer they got to the summit. Carrying her robe under one arm, she had to grab onto to her hat with her other hand when a particularly strong gust of wind swept over them. She spared a moment to glance skyward. Scattered streaks of lightning were jumping between the clouds. A storm was brewing.

She resigned herself to becoming soaked before they were transported. Everything else in this unlikely experience had made her uncomfortable; her last few minutes here would apparently be no different.

* * *

Compared to some of the climbs Travis had made, this was a stroll in the park. The peak was less than three hundred meters high; they had gotten a good third of the way up it in the buggy. The meandering path that switchbacked through scrub brush and a few trees was hardly a challenge, although walking it in the dark did make it more difficult. The lantern carried by the captain was no help to him, since T'Pol in front of him blocked out most of the light. But as long as he followed the line taken by T'Pol, he shouldn't have any trouble.

He wondered what they would find when they reached the top of the peak. It wasn't like there would be a handy signpost for the vortex. Maybe it would be something obvious, like a wormhole opening above them, or a rift unsealing the fabric of space. Whatever it was, even if Daniels wasn't there to guide them, he was sure they would recognize it.

Travis stepped off the path, letting Trip pass, to button up his jacket against the chilly wind. He froze when he heard a noise that was out of place among the rustling foliage. His heart started to race when he realized he didn't know whether there was dangerous wildlife in the area.

He stared back the way they had come. The noise wasn't repeated, and it was next to impossible to make out anything in the dark. He was about to turn back to follow the others, thinking he had imagined the sound, when he saw something move on a small rise about fifty meters below him.

In a flash of lightning that split the sky, Travis could see men on the path. He couldn't tell how many there were in the brief moment of illumination, but he recognized the one in the lead. He was the same man who had been staring at Captain Archer on the cable car.

Travis revised his original opinion of the man. He probably wasn't a Pinkerton. Those agents sometimes operated in groups, but there was no reason Travis could think of that several of them would be coming up this peak at this time of night.

Travis hurried to catch up to the others, bumping into Trip as he reached him.

"Hey!" Trip said. "You about knocked me over."

Travis didn't take time to apologize. "We're being followed by a group of men, and they don't look friendly."

Trip didn't say anything. He broke into a slow jog, the best either man could do without risking falling face first in the dark.

When they caught up to T'Pol, Trip took her by the arm. "Come on," he said, urging her to quicken her pace. "We've got company."

Unwilling to call out and alert those following them, Travis pushed past Trip and T'Pol to warn the captain.

* * *

Jon realized his officers were getting a little strung out behind him on the path, but he didn't slow down. With the weather deteriorating, he wanted to reach the summit before it started raining; the erosion-prone soil could become treacherous in a downpour. He didn't realize that someone had come up behind him until Travis touched his arm.

"We're being followed, sir," Travis blurted out in a low voice. "I don't think they know I saw them."

"How many?"

"I don't know, sir. I only got a good look at one of them. He was the man watching you on the cable car."

Jon had hoped getting the priest to part with his horse and buggy had been their last obstacle, but apparently it wasn't to be. Nothing about this unplanned excursion to the past had been easy. He handed the lantern to Travis. "Keep going. We'll be right behind you."

Trip and T'Pol appeared out of the darkness as Travis hustled off.

"What do you think those men are doing up here?" Trip asked Jon.

Jon didn't say anything as he pulled his revolver out of his belt.

"Might be another robbery attempt," Trip said, also reaching for his gun.

Jon stopped him, saying, "You and T'Pol go on. I'll take rear guard." He looked at T'Pol holding her large-brimmed hat in place against the wind. "And take that off. It makes a big target for anyone who might want to shoot at us."

As his officers scrambled up the path toward the summit, Jon tried to figure out why they were being followed. After the incident in Tulare, he had been careful not to show that he was carrying a lot of money. According to Travis, however, they had been followed since they had left the Palace Hotel, a place known for having a wealthy clientele. Maybe just staying there had been enough of a reason to be singled out, especially when they had ventured to a desolate area at night.

He squatted not only to ease his tired legs, but to lessen the chance of being silhouetted against the sky. He didn't have long to wait for another flash of lightning, as nature more than obliged less than thirty seconds later. Several flashes of lightning in quick succession revealed the path below in strobelike detail.

Jon counted four men carefully picking their way up the path. The fact that none of them had a source of artificial light was slowing them, but they had their quarry cornered. As far as Jon knew, there was only one path on this side of the peak, not to mention that the lantern Travis was carrying gave away his group's location.

He wasn't about to open fire on the men. First, they might have a legitimate reason for being here, although he couldn't think of one. Second, any gunfire would give away his position as well as alert them that they had been spotted. The only option at the moment was to follow his officers, get to the top of the peak, and hope they would be transported before their pursuers reached them.

* * *

The summit was no bigger than _Enterprise_'s bridge. Travis glanced around as he set the lantern on the ground. There was no cover of any kind, only grass and a few bushes. He ducked reflexively as a bolt of lightning shot across the sky, suddenly regretting that he was on one of the two highest spots in the area. The last thing he wanted was to be a human lightning rod.

Distracted as he was by the lightning, which was increasing in frequency, he jumped when Trip and T'Pol reached the summit.

"Ensign, extinguish that light," T'Pol told him.

When Travis didn't move, Trip told him, "She's right. We're sitting ducks up here."

Travis started to protest. "But the captain-"

"I'm here," Jon said as he staggered up over the crest to join them. He bent forward, his hands on his knees, breathing heavily.

"Are you all right, Captain?" T'Pol asked.

"Just out of breath," he told her. "The climb wasn't that hard, but it took something out of me."

"What are we going to do?" Trip asked, pacing back and forth. "Daniels isn't here, and I don't see anything that looks like a vortex."

Jon straightened. They would need to set up a defensive perimeter, keep those men from getting close to them or, better yet, drive them off. In the daytime, it wouldn't have been a problem, since they had the high ground and would be able to see all the approaches. But in the dark, with a storm about to break right above their heads, their chances weren't good.

He slowly turned in a circle, trying to see over the rim of the summit where it dropped away. He wished Malcolm was with them; his tactical officer would know what was best to do in a situation like this.

Jon rubbed a hand across his brow. Not only was he tired, but he was finding it difficult to think clearly. He shouldn't be feeling this way.

In the midst of his sluggish thoughts came a moment of clarity. "Daniels' shield isn't working," he told the others.

"What?" Travis asked in alarm.

Trip, who had gone to look down the slope, rushed back to Jon. "Do you think something went wrong with the transport process? Are we out of range?"

T'Pol said, "Daniels may have had to deactivate whatever process was protecting us to facilitate the transport."

"Let's hope that's all it is!" Trip said.

Out of the darkness came a voice. "Stay right where you are!"

Jon cursed under his breath as he swung around in the direction of the voice. He had heard Trip and T'Pol tell Travis to extinguish the lantern, but the helmsman hadn't. The first thing he should have done when he had reached the top of the peak was order Travis to kill the light.

"Don't move! Throw down your gun."

Jon let his revolver fall from his hand.

Shapes moved up and out of the darkness to stand at the edge of the lantern's circle of light. One figure skittered over to pick up Jon's gun, then backed away.

"You were right, Jeremiah," said the owner of the voice, stepping into the light. The gun in his hand was pointed at Jon. "Three fine, strong-looking specimens, and you say two of them already know their way around a ship. We can ask more than the usual price." He glanced at T'Pol. "And an extra. We'll have no trouble making a tidy profit off her."

Jon's fatigue-hazed mind snapped into focus. They weren't being robbed, he realized. They were being shanghaied.

(A/N: Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion in the next chapter.)


	24. Chapter 24

CHAPTER 24

Jon's exhaustion evaporated as adrenaline coursed through his body. He was damned if he was going to let a gang of nineteenth-century shanghaiers get the best of him, not after the near-epic journey he and his officers had undertaken, and definitely not when they were so close to going home.

He assessed the situation as his groggy mind cleared. He had dropped his gun, but both Trip and T'Pol still had theirs, and Travis had his knife. Unfortunately, he was smack dab in the cross-fire zone between his people and the men facing them. He wondered where Daniels and his vortex were, but he had to shove the thought away. He could worry about that later if they safely got out of this confrontation.

He took a calculated step to the side as he tried to engage the man who had stepped forward. "What do you want?"

"You know what I want," the man said. "You're a New England merchant sea captain. You of all people know how hard it is to find men to crew ships from here to the Orient. I try to relieve that need by supplying able-bodied sailors." The man smirked. "You and your friends fit that bill. And the little lady," he added, glancing at T'Pol, "will bring a tidy sum in the Orient."

Jon sized up the man as he talked. Unlike his companions, who were dressed in heavy jackets and work pants, his apparel was of finer quality. By the lantern's light, Jon could see that he wore a frock coat much like his own, and he was clean shaven but for a meticulously groomed handlebar mustache. But his most notable characteristic was his supreme confidence. Apparently, he had done this sort of thing before. He had to be the gang's leader.

"How do you know I'm a sea captain?" Jon asked.

He gestured toward one of his companions, whom Jon recognized as having been on the cable car. "Jeremiah saw you at the docks today."

"And he's followed us ever since," Jon concluded. He took another step to the side. "We could make it worth your while to leave us alone. I have money."

"Well, you see, that's the reason we took the trouble to follow you up here. We'll have your money, too," the man said.

Jon risked a quick glance at Trip. The engineer was shifting from foot to foot, his need to take action evident with every movement. With Daniels' protective shielding gone, Jon was counting on Trip's renewed hyperactivity to provide a distraction.

A gun in one hand, the gang leader held out his other toward Jon. "Throw me your wallet."

"I'd rather not," Jon said, moving yet another step to the side. He was now out of his officers' line of fire. Even better, he was close enough to the leader to be able to jump him if his attention was diverted.

The gang leader's thin veneer of civility disappeared. "I said give me your wallet!" Without taking his eyes off Jon, he pointed his gun at T'Pol. "Or I'll shoot her."

Trip let out a loud curse as he snatched his Colt Peacemaker from his belt. The leader's gaze shifted to Trip, and Jon leaped, knocking the man's gun hand down. Belatedly, he realized that he had put himself back in the line of fire, so he let his momentum carry both of them to the ground as they wrestled for the gun.

He heard two gunshots from different directions, followed by a sharp report of what had to be T'Pol's derringer. There were yells and a scream of pain, but he couldn't look to see what was happening. He was busy fending off blows while trying to land some of his own as he and the gang leader rolled across the ground, losing the gun they had been fighting over in the process.

Their struggle took them to the edge of the summit. Jon knew if they went over, they would no longer be fighting each other but trying to keep from tumbling downhill through the brush. He slammed a fist into his opponent's stomach just below his rib cage. The air rushed out of the man's lungs in a grunt; a couple of short jabs to the man's jaw left him dazed.

Jon climbed to his feet, intending to find either his or the gang leader's gun. But all he could do was stagger, trying to stay upright as, his adrenaline spent, fatigue almost forced him to his knees.

Across the summit, he saw Travis whip his arm back to throw his knife overhand. For a crazy moment, he thought Travis was throwing it at him. But the knife whistled by to implant itself in the chest of the gang leader, who had recovered and was coming up behind him.

Travis' eyes were wide. Jon knew his helmsman was having his own renewed battle with the effects of the Tlibrednav transport system. He wearily nodded his thanks, then turned in time to see one of the shanghaiers try to grab T'Pol. Hampered by her long skirt, she clumsily sidestepped his lunge, but she managed to strike him on the back of the neck as he passed by. The man dropped without so much as a whimper.

Trip wasn't so lucky. One of the two remaining gang members was behind him, holding his arms, as the other pummeled his stomach.

"Hey!" Jon shouted. With the last of his energy, he ran to rescue his beleaguered engineer.

At Jon's shout, the men stopped beating Trip, who crumpled to the ground. Jon ran right into a punch, a hard shot to his chin. He floundered backward, knocking into Travis, who grabbed him to keep him from falling.

A tremendous bolt of lightning streaked across the sky right above their heads, so close that Jon could feel the charged ions on his skin. Deafening thunder shook the ground as a ferocious blast of wind blew straight down, threatening to knock down anyone who was standing.

As abruptly as the downdraft had started, it stopped.

Everyone looked up. Jon could see clouds spinning directly above the summit in a perfect circle, much like a hurricane viewed from space. The center of the swirling mass opened and, through the glare of another flash of lightning, he saw the dull glint of metal and running lights.

"What the hell is that?" cried the shanghaier closest to Jon.

Jon's answer was a swift blow to the man's jaw, knocking him flat.

The last standing gang member took off running down the path from the summit.

Jon struggled to catch his breath as Travis and T'Pol helped Trip to his feet.

"I think our ride's here," Jon gasped out.

"Not a minute too soon," Trip said, holding his bruised midsection.

Travis was staring up at the underside of _Enterprise_. "She sure is pretty, even from this angle."

"Pretty is a subjective term," T'Pol stated, "although it is a most welcome sight."

Jon straightened, a smile on his face as he gazed at his ship. He didn't care what T'Pol thought of the ship's aesthetic qualities. Right now, _Enterprise _was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

A beeping sound cut through the noise of the storm. Jon, still smiling, fished his communicator out of his pocket and flipped it open. "Go ahead."

"Sir," came Malcolm's voice. "We're going to use the transporter to beam you out."

"Understood," Jon said.

He gestured for the others to gather closer so that the transporter could lock onto them. At the moment the beam took them, Jon had one last thought: They had been trying so hard to get home, and now home had come to them.

* * *

**EPILOGUE**

Jon could have summoned his steward to bring coffee, but he needed to stretch his legs after sitting at his ready room desk for so long. A stroll down to the mess hall would do him good.

Long ago, Jon had learned that Starfleet preferred to have two versions of a report when sensitive issues were involved. Time travel certainly qualified as a sensitive issue, especially when it could affect Earth's past and therefore have repercussions for the future. He had already written the first version. It told only of their visit to Tlibrednav while investigating the spatial anomalies, which had subsequently disappeared.

He would tackle the classified version after his break. In it, he would recount that the Tlibrednav had been inadvertently responsible for the spatial anomalies as well as an accidental excursion into Earth's past. The Tlibrednav had fixed the problem, as Daniels had said they would. They had even suspended their own use of the time transport system as they considered the possible consequences of changing their planet's history. They were learning that sometimes technology outpaced the ability of its makers to use it wisely.

Jon also realized that he was going to have to be careful what he wrote in the classified version, or he could come off as a raving lunatic. Needless to say, he would make no mention of Daniels in either report. If it wouldn't have been for the temporal agent, however, Malcolm wouldn't have been able to access the vortex to retrieve them from the past. He would have to figure out how to get around that, too. Maybe pleading ignorance, which was close to the truth with temporal events as far as he was concerned, would be best.

In the mess hall, he got a cup of coffee from the beverage dispenser. He headed for a table near the windows, where Trip was finishing a late lunch. He was happy to see that his chief engineer was savoring his food, not gulping it down as he had when he had been under the effects of the Tlibrednav transport system.

"How's Engineering?" Jon asked as he sat down.

Trip shrugged. "I thought it would have gone to hell in a hand basket since we were away so long. But then it turns out we weren't."

That had been one of the biggest surprises of the whole affair. Although they had been in the Gilded Age for more than a week, they had returned to find that they had been gone from their proper time period for little more than twenty-four hours. Jon didn't know if that was Daniels' doing, or if that was just the way time travel worked. It did make him wonder how much time Daniels had spent researching their predicament. He suspected it had been a lot more than a week.

"A day is hardly long enough for Engineering to go belly-up without you around," Jon teased his engineer. He looked over his shoulder at the serving cabinets. "I wonder if there's any of that chocolate mousse left that Chef served last night."

"Don't bother getting up," Trip told him. "Travis got the last of it when he was here earlier. He still likes chocolate, time travel side effects or not."

Jon chuckled, but then sobered. "I've having Hoshi check historical records to see if there's any mention of us."

"I don't see why there would be," Trip said. "We kept a pretty low profile. And we didn't really do anything other than take a cross-country trip."

"Yes, but there's one little problem," Jon said. "Remember T'Pol's stories? She was supposed to destroy them before we returned."

"That's right," Trip said, "but I don't see any real harm if she brought them back."

"She didn't bring them back," Jon told him. "She was ready to burn them when the shanghaiers showed up. She dropped them during the fight."

"And she didn't think to say anything about that before we left?" Trip asked.

"Her logic was impaired by the Tlibrednav transport system," Jon told him. "At the time, she believed getting back to _Enterprise _was more important."

"Well, I can't argue with her about that," Trip said. "Chances are they got ruined in the storm and were so waterlogged no one could read them." He tossed his napkin on his plate. "How are you doing on your report to Starfleet?"

"Reports," Jon corrected him. "There's the public one, and then there's the classified one."

Trip nodded. "I can see why Starfleet might not want some of what happened to become common knowledge."

The mess hall door opened to admit another of Jon's officers. Malcolm looked around the room and, seeing them, walked over to hand Jon a PADD. "My report on what happened while I was in command," Malcolm said. "Hoshi also asked me to tell you that she has found only one reference to any of you in the historical archives."

"Sit down, Malcolm," Jon told him.

As his tactical officer took a seat at the table, Jon asked, "What's the reference?"

Malcolm tilted his head. "It's a small article in the back pages of a San Francisco newspaper about guests at a hotel who had disappeared, leaving all their belongings behind. It does not refer to you by name, only as a merchant sea captain in town to look for a ship."

Jon breathed out heavily. "Well, I suppose that's better than I could have hoped for." He paused, a look of devilish merriment in his eyes. "There was no mention of Mission Dolores?"

"Hoshi didn't say, sir," Malcolm said. "What happened at Mission Dolores? That was a Spanish mission outpost, wasn't it?"

Jon smiled widely. "We borrowed a horse and buggy there so Trip could propose to T'Pol."

"That's going in the classified report," Trip said tartly to Malcolm, "so don't even bother askin'."

"Speaking of which, that classified report isn't going to write itself," Jon said. He took a long drink of his coffee before pushing back from the table.

As Jon got to his feet, Malcolm said, "Sir? A suggestion, if I might?"

"What is it, Malcolm?" Jon asked.

"You might consider flagging the classified report under Article 14, Section 31, of the Starfleet Charter." At Jon's blank look, he explained, "It allows for 'extraordinary measures to be taken in times of extreme threat.' That ought to ensure that the report is buried so deep no one will ever see it."

"Time travel can certainly be considered an extreme threat," Jon said. "Let's just hope that this is the last time we, or anyone else, has to deal with it."

A cold chill ran through him as he walked out of the mess hall. He could imagine what might happen if someone deliberately went back in time to alter Earth's history. Not only would he follow Malcolm's suggestion about filing the report, he would make it so vague as to be useless to anyone who might chance upon it.

THE END

(A/N: Thank you to all of you who have read this, especially those who have left reviews. It's very much appreciated.)


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